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MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK    •    BOSTON   ■    CHICAGO    •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA   •    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  ■  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


MARY    OLIVIER: 

A  LIFE 


BY 
MAY  SINCLAIR 


THE   MACMILLAN   COMPANY 
1919 

AU  rights  reserved 


COPTKIGHT,    1919, 

By  mat  SINCLAIR. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  July,  19x9. 


NortoooB  ^rcB8 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


CONTENTS 

BOOK    ONE 

PAOB 

Infancy  (1865-1869) 1 

BOOK   TWO 
Childhood  (1869-1875) 39 

BOOK   THREE 
Adolescence  (1876-1879) 91 

BOOK   FOUR 
Maturity   (1879-1900) 155 

BOOK   FIVE 
Middle  Age    (1900-1910) 329 


BOOK   ONE 
INFANCY 
1865-1869 


MARY  OLIVIER:  A  LIFE 


BOOK   ONE 

INFANCY 
I 


The  curtain  of  the  big  bed  hung  down  beside  the  cot. 

When  old  Jenny  shook  it  the  wooden  rings  rattled  on  the 
pole  and  grey  men  with  pointed  heads  and  squat,  bulging 
bodies  came  out  of  the  folds  on  to  the  flat  green  ground. 
If  you  looked  at  them  they  turned  into  squab  faces  smeared 
with  green. 

Ever}^  night,  when  Jenny  had  gone  away  with  the  doll 
and  the  donkey,  you  hunched  up  the  blanket  and  the  stiff 
white  counterpane  to  hide  the  curtain  and  you  played  with 
the  knob  in  the  green  painted  iron  railing  of  the  cot.  It 
stuck  out  close  to  your  face,  winking  and  grinning  at  you 
in  a  friendly  way.  You  poked  it  till  it  left  off  and  turned 
grey  and  went  back  into  the  railing.  Then  you  had  to 
feel  for  it  with  your  finger.  It  fitted  the  hollow  of  your 
hand,  cool  and  hard,  with  a  blunt  nose  that  pushed  agreeably 
into  the  palm. 

In  the  dark  you  could  go  tip-finger  along  the  slender, 
lashing  flourishes  of  the  ironwork.  By  stretching  your 
arm  out  tight  you  could  reach  the  curlykew  at  the  end. 
The  short,  steep  flourish  took  you  to  the  top  of  the  railing 
and  on  behind  j'our  head. 

Tip-fingering  backwards  that  way  you  got  into  the  grey 
lane  where  the  prickly  stones  were  and  the  hedge  of  little 
biting  trees.  When  the  door  in  the  hedge  opened  you  saw 
the  man  in  the  night-shirt.  He  had  only  half  a  face.  From 
his  nose  and  his  cheek-bones  downwards  his  beard  hung 


4  MARY   OLIVIER:   A  LIFE 

straight  like  a  dark  cloth.  You  opened  your  mouth,  but 
before  you  could  scream  3^ou  were  back  in  the  cot;  the  room 
was  light;  the  green  knob  winked  and  grinned  at  you  from 
the  railing,  and  behind  the  curtain  Papa  and  Mamma  were 
lying  in  the  big  bed. 

One  night  she  came  back  out  of  the  lane  as  the  door  in 
the  hedge  was  opening.  The  man  stood  in  the  room  by  the 
washstand,  scratching  his  long  thigh.  He  was  turned  slant- 
wise from  the  nightlight  on  the  washstand  so  that  it  showed 
his  yellowish  skin  under  the  lifted  shirt.  The  white  half- 
face  hung  by  itself  on  the  darkness.  When  he  left  off 
scratching  and  moved  towards  the  cot  she  screamed. 

Mamma  took  her  into  the  big  bed.  She  curled  up  there 
under  the  shelter  of  the  raised  hip  and  shoulder.  Mamma's 
face  was  dry  and  warm  and  smelt  sweet  like  Jenny's  powder- 
puff.  Mamma's  mouth  moved  over  her  wet  cheeks,  nipping 
her  tears. 

Her  cry  changed  to  a  whimper  and  a  soft,  ebbing  sob. 

Mamma's  breast:  a  smooth,  cool,  round  thing  that  hung 
to  your  hands  and  slipped  from  them  when  they  tried  to 
hold  it.  You  could  feel  the  little  ridges  of  the  stiff  nipple 
as  your  finger  pushed  it  back  into  the  breast. 

Her  sobs  shook  in  her  throat  and  ceased  suddenly. 

n 

The  big  white  globes  hung  in  a  ring  above  the  dinner 
table.  At  first,  when  she  came  into  the  room,  carried  high 
in  Jenny's  arms,  she  could  see  nothing  but  the  hanging, 
shining  globes.  Each  had  a  light  inside  it  that  made  it 
shine. 

Mamma  was  sitting  at  the  far  end  of  the  table.  Her  face 
and  neck  shone  white  above  the  pile  of  oranges  on  the  dark 
blue  dish.  She  was  dipping  her  fingers  in  a  dark  blue  glass 
bowl. 

When  Mary  saw  her  she  strained  towards  her,  leaning 
dangerously  out  of  Jenny's  arms.  Old  Jenny  said  "  Tchit- 
tchit!  "  and  made  her  arms  tight  and  hard  and  put  her  on 
Papa's  knee. 

Papa  sat  up,  broad  and  tall  above  the  table,  all  by  him- 


INFANCY  5 

self.  He  was  dressed  in  black.  One  long  brown  beard 
hung  doTVTi  in  front  of  him  and  one  short  beard  covered 
his  mouth.  You  knew  he  was  smiling  because  his  cheeks 
swelled  high  up  his  face  so  that  his  eyes  were  squeezed  into 
narrow,  shining  slits.  When  they  came  out  again  you  saw 
scarlet  specks  and  smears  in  their  corners. 

Papa's  big  white  hand  was  on  the  table,  holding  a  glass 
filled  with  some  red  stuff  that  was  both  dark  and  shining 
and  had  a  queer,  sharp  smell. 

"  Porty-worty  winey-piney,"  said  Papa. 

The  same  queer,  sharp  smell  came  from  between  his  two 
beards  when  he  spoke. 

Mark  was  sitting  up  beside  Mamma  a  long  way  off.  She 
could  see  them  looking  at  each  other.  Roddy  and  Dank 
were  with  them. 

They  were  making  flowers  out  of  orange  peel  and  floating 
them  in  the  finger  bowls.  Mamma's  fingers  were  blue  and 
sharp-pointed  in  the  water  behind  the  dark  blue  glass  of 
her  bowl.  The  floating  orange-peel  flowers  were  blue.  She 
could  see  Mamma  smiling  as  she  stirred  them  about  with 
the  tips  of  her  blue  fingers. 

Her  underlip  pouted  and  shook.  She  didn't  want  to  sit 
by  herself  on  Papa's  knee.  She  wanted  to  sit  in  Mamma's 
lap  beside  Mark.  She  wanted  Mark  to  make  orange-peel 
flowers  for  her.  She  wanted  Mamma  to  look  down  at  her 
and  smile. 

Papa  was  spreading  butter  on  biscuit  and  powdered  sugar 
on  the  butter. 

"  Sugary  —  Buttery  —  Bippery,"  said  Papa. 

She  shook  her  head.  "  I  want  to  go  to  Mamma.  I  want 
to  go  to  Mark." 

She  pushed  away  the  biscuit.  "  No.  No.  Mamma  give 
Mary.    Mark  give  Mary." 

"  Drinky  —  winky,"  said  Papa. 

He  put  his  glass  to  her  shaking  mouth.  She  turned  her 
head  away,  and  he  took  it  between  his  thumb  and  finger 
and  turned  it  back  again.  Her  neck  moved  stiffly.  Her 
head  felt  small  and  brittle  under  the  weight  and  pinch  of 
the  big  hand.  The  smell  and  the  sour,  burning  taste  of 
the  wine  made  her  cry. 


6  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Don't  tease  Baby,  Emilius,"  said  Mamma. 

"  I  never  tease  anybody." 

He  lifted  her  up.  She  could  feel  her  body  swell  and 
tighten  under  the  bands  and  drawstrings  of  her  clothes,  as 
she  struggled  and  choked,  straining  against  the  immense 
clamp  of  his  arms.  When  his  wet  red  lips  pushed  out  be- 
tween his  beards  to  kiss  her  she  kicked.  Her  toes  drummed 
against  something  stiff  and  thin  that  gave  way  and  sprang 
out  again  with  a  cracking  and  popping  sound. 

He  put  her  on  the  floor.  She  stood  there  all  by  herself, 
crying,  till  Mark  came  and  took  her  by  the  hand. 

"  Naughty  Baby.  Naughty  Mary,"  said  Mamma. 
"  Don't  kiss  her,  Mark." 

"  No,  Manmia." 

He  knelt  on  the  floor  beside  her  and  smiled  into  her  face 
and  wiped  it  with  his  pocket-handkerchief.  She  put  out  her 
mouth  and  kissed  him  and  stopped  crying. 

"  Jenny  must  come,  "  Mamma  said,  "  and  take  Mary 
away." 

"  No.     Mark  take  Mary." 

"  Let  the  little  beast  take  her,"  said  Papa.  "  If  he  does 
he  shan't  come  back  again.     Do  you  hear  that,  sir?  " 

Mark  said,  "  Yes,  Papa." 

They  went  out  of  the  room  hand  in  hand.  He  carried 
her  upstairs  pickaback.  As  they  went  she  rested  her  chin 
on  the  nape  of  his  neck  where  his  brown  hair  thinned  off 
into  shiny,  golden  down. 

in 

Old  Jenny  sat  in  the  rocking-chair  by  the  fireguard  in  the 
nursery.  She  wore  a  black  net  cap  v/ith  purple  rosettes 
above  her  ears.  You  could  look  through  the  black  net  and 
see  the  top  of  her  head  laid  out  in  stripes  of  grey  hair  and 
pinky  skin. 

She  had  a  grey  face,  flattened  and  wide-open  like  her  eyes. 
She  held  it  tilted  slightly  backwards  out  of  your  way,  and 
seemed  to  be  always  staring  at  something  just  above  your 
head.  Jenny's  face  had  tiny  creases  and  crinkles  all  over  it. 
When  you  kissed  it  you  could  feel  the  loose  flesh  cnmipling 


INFANCY  7 

and  sliding  softly  over  the  bone.  There  was  always  about 
her  a  faint  smell  of  sour  milk. 

No  use  trying  to  talk  to  Jenny.  She  was  too  tired  to 
listen.  You  climbed  on  to  her  lap  and  stroked  her  face,  and 
said  "  Poor  Jenny.  Dear  Jenny.  Poor  Jenny-Wee  so  tired," 
and  her  face  shut  up  and  went  to  sleep.  Her  broad  flat  nose 
drooped;  her  eyelids  drooped;  her  long,  grey  bands  of  hair 
drooped;  she  was  like  the  white  donkey  that  lived  in  the 
back  lane  and  slept  standing  on  three  legs  with  his  ears 
lying  down. 

Mary  loved  old  Jenny  next  to  Mamma  and  Mark;  and 
she  loved  the  white  donkey.  She  wondered  why  Jenny  was 
always  cross  when  you  stroked  her  grey  face  and  called  her 
"  Donkey-Jenny."  It  was  not  as  if  she  minded  being 
stroked;  because  when  Mark  or  Dank  did  it  her  face  woke 
up  suddenly  and  smoothed  out  its  creases.  And  when 
Roddy  climbed  up  with  his  long  legs  into  her  lap  she 
hugged  him  tight  and  rocked  him,  singing  Mamma's  song, 
and  called  him  her  baby. 

He  wasn't.  She  was  the  baby;  and  while  you  were  the 
baby  you  could  sit  in  people's  laps.  But  old  Jenny  didn't 
want  her  to  be  the  baby. 

The  nursery  had  shiny,  slippery  yellow  walls  and  a  brown 
floor,  and  a  black  hearthrug  with  a  centre  of  brown  and  yel- 
low flowers.  The  greyish  chintz  curtains  were  spotted  with 
small  brown  leaves  and  crimson  berries.  There  were  dark- 
brown  cupboards  and  chests  of  drawers,  and  chairs  that  were 
brown  frames  for  the  yellow  network  of  the  cane.  Soft  bits 
of  you  squeezed  through  the  holes  and  came  out  on  the 
other  side.  That  hurt  and  made  a  red  pattern  on  you 
where  you  sat  down. 

The  tall  green  fireguard  was  a  cage.  When  Jenny  poked 
the  fire  you  peeped  through  and  saw  it  fluttering  inside.  If 
you  sat  still  you  could  sometimes  hear  it  say  "  teck-teck," 
and  sometimes  the  fire  would  fly  out  suddenly  with  a  soft 
hiss. 

High  above  your  head  you  could  just  see  the  gleaming 
edge  of  the  brass  rail. 

"  Jenny  —  where's  yesterday  and  where's  to-morrow?  " 


8  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


IV 

When  you  had  run  a  thousand  hundred  times  round  the 
table  you  came  to  the  blue  house.  It  stood  behind  Jenny's 
rocking-chair,  where  Jenny  couldn't  see  it,  in  a  blue  gar- 
den. The  walls  and  ceilings  were  blue ;  the  doors  and  stair- 
cases were  blue ;  everything  in  all  the  rooms  was  blue. 

Mary  ran  round  and  round.  She  loved  the  padding  of  her 
feet  on  the  floor  and  the  sound  of  her  sing-song: 

"  The  pussies  are  blue,  the  beds  are  blue,  the  matches  are 
blue  and  the  mousetraps  and  all  the  litty  mouses!  " 

Mamma  was  always  there  dressed  in  a  blue  gown;  and 
Jenny  was  there,  all  in  blue,  with  a  blue  cap;  and  Mark  and 
Dank  and  Roddy  were  there,  all  in  blue.  But  Papa  was 
not  allowed  in  the  blue  house. 

Mamma  came  in  and  looked  at  her  as  she  ran.  She 
stood  in  the  doorway  with  her  finger  on  her  mouth,  and  she 
was  smiling.  Her  brown  hair  was  parted  in  two  sleek  bands, 
looped  and  puffed  out  softly  round  her  ears,  and  plaited  in 
one  plait  that  stood  up  on  its  edge  above  her  forehead. 
She  wore  a  wide  brown  silk  gown  with  falling  sleeves. 

"  Pretty  Mamma,"  said  Mary,    "  In  a  blue  dress." 


Every  morning  Mark  and  Dank  and  Roddy  knocked  at 
Mamma's  door,  and  if  Papa  was  there  he  called  out,  "  Go 
away,  you  little  beasts!  "  If  he  was  not  there  she  said, 
"  Come  in,  darlings !  "  and  they  climbed  up  the  big  bed 
into  Papa's  place  and  said  "  Good  morning,  Mamma!  " 

When  Papa  was  away  the  lifted  curtain  spread  like  a  tent 
over  Mary's  cot,  shutting  her  in  with  Mamma.  When  he 
was  there  the  drawn  curtain  hung  straight  down  from  the 
head  of  the  bed. 

II 

I 

White  patterns  on  the  window,  sharp  spikes,  feathers, 
sprigs  with  furled  edges,  stuck  flat  on  to  the  glass;  white 


INFANCY  9 

webs,  crinkled  like  the  skin  of  boiled  milk,  stretched  across 
the  corner  of  the  pane;  crisp,  sticky  stuff  that  bit  your 
fingers. 

Out  of  doors,  black  twigs  thickened  with  a  white  fur; 
white  powder  sprinkled  over  the  garden  walk.  The  white, 
ruffled  grass  stood  out  stiffly  and  gave  under  your  feet  with 
a  pleasant  crunching.  The  air  smelt  good;  you  opened 
your  mouth  and  drank  it  in  gulps.  It  went  down  like  cold, 
tingling  v>^ater. 

Frost. 

You  saw  the  sun  for  the  first  time,  a  red  ball  that  hung 
by  itself  on  the  yellowish  white  sky.  Mamma  said,  ''  Yes, 
of  course  it  would  fall  if  God  wasn't  there  to  hold  it  up  in 
his  hands." 

Supposing  God  dropped  the  sun  — 

n 

The  yellowish  white  sky  had  come  close  up  to  the  house, 
a  dirty  blanket  let  down  outside  the  window.  The  tree 
made  a  black  pattern  on  it.  Clear  glass  beads  hung  in  a 
row  from  the  black  branch,  each  black  twig  was  tipped  with 
a  glass  bead.  When  Jenny  opened  the  window  there  was 
a  queer  cold  smell  like  the  smell  of  the  black  water  in  the 
butt. 

Thin  white  powder  fluttered  out  of  the  blanket  and  fell. 
A  thick  powder.  A  white  fluff  that  piled  itself  in  a  ridge 
on  the  window-sill  and  curved  softly  in  the  corner  of  the 
sash.  It  was  cold,  and  melted  on  your  tongue  with  a  taste 
of  window-pane. 

In  the  garden  Mark  and  Dank  and  Roddy  were  making 
the  snow  man. 

Mamma  stood  at  the  nursery  window  with  her  back  to 
the  room.  She  called  to  Mary  to  come  and  look  at  the 
snow  man. 

Mary  was  tired  of  the  snow  man.  She  was  making  a 
tower  with  Roddy's  bricks  while  Roddy  wasn't  there.  She 
had  to  build  it  quick  before  he  could  come  back  and  take  his 
bricks  away,  and  the  quicker  you  built  it  the  sooner  it  fell 
down.     Mamma  was  not  to  look  until  it  was  finished. 


10  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"Look  —  look,  Mamma!  M-m-mary's  m-m-made  a  tar. 
And  it's  not  failed  down!  " 

The  tower  reached  above  Jenny's  knee. 

"  Come  and  look,  Mamma  —  "  But  Mamma  wouldn't 
even  turn  her  head. 

"  I'm  looking  at  the  snow  man,"  she  said. 

Something  swelled  up,  hot  and  tight,  in  Mary's  body  and 
in  her  face.  She  had  a  big  bursting  face  and  a  big  bursting 
body.  She  struck  the  tower,  and  it  fell  down.  Her  vio- 
lence made  her  feel  light  and  small  again  and  happy. 

"  Where's  the  tower,  Mary?  "  said  Mamma. 

"  There  isn't  any  tar.  I've  knocked  it  down.  It  was  a 
nashty  tar." 

Ill 

Aunt  Charlotte  — 

Aunt  Charlotte  had  sent  the  Isle  of  Skye  terrier  to  Dank. 

There  w^as  a  picture  of  Aunt  Charlotte  in  Mamma's 
Album.  She  stood  on  a  strip  of  carpet,  supported  by  the 
hoops  of  her  crinoline ;  her  black  lace  shawl  made  a  pattern 
on  the  light  gown.  She  wore  a  little  hat  with  a  white 
sweeping  feather,  and  under  the  hat  two  long  black  curls 
hung  down  straight  on  each  shoulder. 

The  other  people  in  the  Album  were  sulky,  and  wouldn't 
look  at  you.  The  gentlemen  made  cross  faces  at  some- 
body who  wasn't  there;  the  ladies  hung  their  heads  and 
looked  down  at  their  crinolines.  Aunt  Charlotte  hung  her 
head  too,  but  her  eyes,  tilted  up  straight  under  her  forehead, 
pointed  at  you.  And  between  her  stiff  black  curls  she  was 
smiling  —  smiling.  When  Mamma  came  to  Aunt  Char- 
lotte's picture  she  tried  to  turn  over  the  page  of  the  Album 
quick. 

Aunt  Charlotte  sent  things.  She  sent  the  fat  valentine 
with  the  lace  paper  border  and  black  letters  printed  on 
sweet-smelling  white  satin  that  Papa  threw  into  the  fire, 
and  the  white  china  doll  with  black  hair  and  blue  eyes  and 
no  clothes  on  that  Jenny  hid  in  the  nursery  cupboard. 

The  Skye  terrier  brought  a  message  tied  under  his  chin: 
"  Tib.    For  my  dear  little  nephew  Dan  with  Aunt  Charlotte's 


INFANCY  11 

fond  love."  He  had  high-peaked,  tufted  ears  and  a  black- 
ish grey  coat  that  trailed  on  the  floor  like  a  shawl  that  was 
too  big  for  him.  When  you  tried  to  stroke  him  the  shawl 
swept  and  trailed  away  under  the  table.  You  saw  nothing 
but  shawl  and  ears  until  Papa  began  to  tease  Tib.  Papa 
snapped  his  finger  and  thumb  at  him,  and  Tib  showed  little 
angry  eyes  and  white  teeth  set  in  a  black  snarl. 

Mamma  said,  "  Please  don't  do  that  again,  Emilius." 

And  Papa  did  it  again. 

IV 

"What  are  you  looking  at.  Master  Daniel?  "  said  Jenny. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Then  what  are  you  looking  like  that  for?  You  didn't 
ought  to." 

Papa  had  sent  Mark  and  Dank  to  the  nursery  in  disgrace. 
Mark  leaned  over  the  back  of  Jenny's  chair  and  rocked 
her.  His  face  w'as  red  but  tight;  and  as  he  rocked  he 
smiled  because  of  his  punishment. 

Dank  lay  on  the  floor  on  his  stomach,  his  shoulders 
hunched,  raised  on  his  elbows,  his  chin  supported  by  his 
clenched  fists.  He  was  a  dark  and  white  boy  with  dusty 
eyelashes  and  rough,  doggy  hair.  He  had  puckered  up  his 
mouth  and  made  it  small;  under  the  scowl  of  his  twisted 
eyebrows  he  was  looking  at  nothing. 

"  It's  no  worse  for  you  than  it  is  for  Master  Mark,"  said 
Jenny. 

"  Isn't  it?  Tib  was  my  dog.  If  he  hadn't  been  my  dog 
Papa  wouldn't  have  teased  him,  and  Mamma  wouldn't  have 
sent  him  back  to  Aunt  Charlotte,  and  Aunt  Charlotte 
wouldn't  have  let  him  be  run  over." 

"  Yes.    But  what  did  you  say  to  your  Papa?  " 

"  I  said  I  wish  Tib  had  bitten  him.  So  I  do.  And  Mark 
said  it  would  have  served  him  jolly  well  right." 

"  So  it  would,"  said  Mark. 

Roddy  had  turned  his  back  on  them.  Nobody  was  taking 
any  notice  of  him;  so  he  sang  aloud  to  himself  the  song  he 
was  forbidden  to  sing: 

"  John  Brown's  body  lies  a-rotting  in  his  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-rotting  in  his  grave  —  " 


12  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

The  song  seemed  to  burst  out  of  Roddy's  beautiful  white 
face ;  his  pink  lips  twirled  and  tilted ;  his  golden  curls  bobbed 
and  nodded  to  the  tune. 

"  John  Bro^Ti's  body  lies  a-rotting  in  his  grave, 
As  we  go  marching  on!  " 

"  When  I  grow  up,"  said  Dank,  "  I'll  kill  Papa  for  killing 
Tibby.  I'll  bore  holes  in  his  face  with  Mark's  gimlet.  I'll 
cut  pieces  out  of  him.  I'll  get  the  matches  and  set  fire  to 
his  beard.     I'll  —  I'll  hurt  him." 

"I  don't  think  I  shall,"  said  Mark.  ''But  if  I  do  I 
shan't  kick  up  a  silly  row  about  it  first." 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you.  You'd  kick  up  a  row  if  Tibby 
was  your  dog." 

Mary  had  forgotten  Tibby.     Now  she  remembered. 

"  Where's  Tibby?    I  want  him." 

"  Tibby's  dead,"  said  Jenny, 

"  What's  '  dead;?  " 

"  Never  you  mind." 

Roddy  was  singing: 

"  '  And  from  his  nose  and  to  his  chin 

The  worms  crawled  out  and  the  worms  crawled  in  ' — 

"  That's  dead,"  said  Roddy. 


You  never  knew  when  Aunt  Charlotte  mightn't  send 
something.  She  forgot  your  birthday  and  sometimes  Christ- 
mas ;  but,  to  make  up  for  that,  she  remembered  in  between. 
Every  time  she  was  going  to  be  married  she  remembered. 

Sarah  the  cat  came  too  long  after  Mark's  twelfth  birth- 
day to  be  his  birthday  present.  There  was  no  message  with 
her  except  that  Aunt  Charlotte  was  going  to  be  married  and 
didn't  want  her  any  more.  Whenever  Aunt  Charlotte  was 
going  to  be  married  she  sent  you  something  she  didn't  want. 

Sarah  was  a  white  cat  with  a  pink  nose  and  pink  lips  and 
pink  pads  under  her  paws.  Her  tabby  hood  came  down  in 
a  peak  between  her  green  eyes.    Her  tabby  cape  went  on 


INFANCY  13 

along  the  back  of  her  tail,  tapering  to  the  tip.  Sarah 
crouched  against  the  fireguard,  her  haunches  raised,  lier  head 
sunk  back  on  her  shoulders,  and  her  paws  tucked  in  under 
her  white,  pouting  breast. 

Mark  stooped  over  her;  his  mouth  smiled  its  small,  firm 
smile;  his  eyes  shone  as  he  stroked  her.  Sarah  raised  her 
haunches  under  the  caressing  hand. 

Mary's  body  was  still.  Something  stirred  and  tightened 
in  it  when  she  looked  at  Sarah. 

"  I  want  Sarah,"  she  said. 

"  You  can't  have  her,"  said  Jenny.  "  She's  Master  Mark's 
cat." 

She  wanted  her  more  than  Roddy's  bricks  and  Bank's 
animal  book  or  Mark's  soldiers.  She  trembled  when  she 
held  her  in  her  arms  and  kissed  her  and  smelt  the  warm, 
gweet,  sleepy  smell  that  came  from  the  top  of  her  head. 

"  Little  girls  can't  have  everything  they  want,"  said 
Jenny. 

"  I  wanted  her  before  you  did,"  said  Dank.  "  You're  too 
little  to  have  a  cat  at  all." 

He  sat  on  the  table  swinging  his  legs.  His  dark,  mourn- 
ful eyes  watched  Mark  under  their  doggy  scowl.  He  looked 
like  Tibby,  the  terrier  that  Mamma  sent  away  because 
Papa  teased  him. 

"  Sarah  isn't  your  cat  either.  Master  Daniel.  Your  Aunt 
Charlotte  gave  her  to  your  Mamma,  and  your  Mamma  gave 
her  to  Master  Mark." 

"  She  ought  to  have  given  her  to  me.  She  took  my  dog 
away." 

"  I  gave  her  to  you,"  said  Mark, 

"  And  I  gave  her  to  you  back  again." 

"  Well  then,  she's  half  our  cat." 

"  I  want  her,"  said  Mary.     She  said  it  again  and  again. 

Mamma  came  and  took  her  into  the  room  with  the  big 
bed. 

The  gas  blazed  in  the  white  globes.  Lovely  white  lights 
washed  like  water  over  the  polished  yellow  furniture:  the 
bed,  the  great  high  wardrobe,  the  chests  of  drawers,  the 
twisted  poles  of  the  looking-glass.  There  were  soft  rounds 
and  edges  of  blond  light  on  the  white  marble  chimney-piece 


14  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

and  the  white  marble  washstand.  The  drawn  curtains  were 
covered  with  shining  silver  patterns  on  a  sleek  green  ground 
that  shone.  All  these  things  showed  again  in  the  long, 
flashing  mirrors. 

Mary  looked  round  the  room  and  wondered  why  the  squat 
grey  men  had  gone  out  of  the  curtains. 

"  Don't  look  about  you,"  said  Mamma.  "  Look  at  me. 
Why  do  you  want  Sarah?  " 

She  had  forgotten  Sarah. 

"  Because/'  she  said,  ''  Sarah  is  so  sweet." 

"  Mamma  gave  Sarah  to  Mark.  Mary  mustn't  want  what 
isn't  given  her.  Mark  doesn't  say,  '  I  want  Mary's  dollies.' 
Papa  doesn't  say,  '  I  want  Mamma's  workbox.'  " 

"  But  /  want  Sarah." 

"  And  that's  selfish  and  self-willed." 

Mamma  sat  down  on  the  low  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

"  God,"  she  said,  "  hates  selfishness  and  self-will.  God 
is  grieved  every  time  Mary  is  self-willed  and  selfish.  He 
wants  her  to  give  up  her  will." 

When  Mamma  talked  about  God  she  took  you  on  her 
lap  and  you  plaj^ed  with  the  gold  tassel  on  her  watch  chain. 
Her  face  was  solemn  and  tender.  She  spoke  softly.  She 
was  afraid  that  God  might  hear  her  talking  about  him  and 
wouldn't  like  it. 

Mary  knelt  in  Mamma's  lap  and  said  "  Gentle  Jesus, 
meek  and  mild,"  and  "  Our  Father,"  and  played  with  the 
gold  tassel.  Every  day  began  and  ended  with  "  Our 
Father  "  and  "  Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild." 

"  What's  hallowed?  " 

"  Holy,"  said  Mamma.    "  What  God  is.    Sacred  and  holy." 

Mary  twisted  the  gold  tassel  and  made  it  dance  and 
run  through  the  loop  of  the  chain.  Mamma  took  it  out  of 
her  hands  and  pressed  them  together  and  stooped  her  head 
to  them  and  kissed  them.  She  could  feel  the  kiss  tingling 
through  her  body  from  her  finger-tips,  and  she  was  suddenly 
docile  and  appeased. 

When  she  lay  in  her  cot  behind  the  curtain  she  prayed: 
"  Please  God  keep  me  from  wanting  Sarah." 

In  the  morning  she  remembered.  When  she  looked  at 
Sarah  she  thought:  "  Sarah  is  Mark's  cat  and  Bank's  cat." 


INFANCY  16 

She  touched  her  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  Sarah's 
eyes  were  reproachful  and  unhappy.  She  ran  away  and 
crept  under  the  chest  of  drawers. 

"  Mamma  gave  Sarah  to  Mark." 

Mamma  was  sacred  and  holy.  Mark  was  sacred  and 
holy.  Sarah  was  sacred  and  holy,  crouching  under  the 
chest  of  drawers  with  her  eyes  gleaming  in  the  darkness. 


VI 

It  was  a  good  and  happy  day. 

She  lay  on  the  big  bed.  Her  head  rested  on  Mamma's 
arm.  Mamma's  face  was  close  to  her.  Water  trickled  into 
her  eyes  out  of  the  wet  pad  of  pocket-handkerchief.  Under 
the  cold  pad  a  hot,  grinding  pain  came  from  the  hole  in  her 
forehead.  Jenny  stood  beside  the  bed.  Her  face  had 
waked  up  and  she  was  busy  squeezing  something  out  of  a 
red  sponge  into  a  basin  of  pink  water. 

When  Mamma  pressed  the  pocket-handkerchief  tight  the 
pain  ground  harder,  when  she  loosened  it  blood  ran  out  of 
the  hole  and  the  pocket-handkerchief  was  warm  again. 
Then  Jenny  put  on  the  sponge. 

She  could  hear  Jenny  say,  "  It  was  the  Master's  fault. 
She  didn't  ought  to  have  been  left  in  the  room  with  him." 

She  remembered.  The  dining-room  and  the  sharp  spike 
on  the  fender  and  Papa's  legs  stretched  out.  He  had  told 
her  not  to  run  so  fast  and  she  had  run  faster  and  faster. 
It  wasn't  Papa's  fault. 

She  remembered  tripping  over  Papa's  legs.  Then  falling 
on  the  spike.     Then  nothing. 

Then  waking  in  Mamma's  room. 

She  wasn't  crying.  The  pain  made  her  feel  good  and 
happy ;  and  Mamma  was  calling  her  her  darling  and  her  little 
lamb.    Mamma  loved  her.     Jenny  loved  her. 

Mark  and  Dank  and  Roddy  came  in.  Mark  carried  Sarah 
in  his  arms.  They  stood  by  the  bed  and  looked  at  her; 
their  faces  pressed  close.  Roddy  had  been  crying;  but  Mark 
and  Dank  were  excited.  They  climbed  on  to  the  bed  and 
kissed  her.  They  made  Sarah  crouch  down  close  beside  her 
and  held  her  there.  They  spoke  very  fast,  one  after  the 
other. 


16  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

"  We've  brought  you  Sarah." 
"  We've  given  vou  Sarah," 
"  She's  your  cat." 
"  To  keep  for  ever." 

She  was  ghid  that  she  had  tripped  over  Papa's  legs.     It 
was  a  good  and  happy  day. 


VII 

The  sun  shone.  The  polished  green  blades  of  the  grass 
glittered.  The  gravel  walk  and  the  nasturtium  bed  together 
made  a  broad  orange  blaze.  Specks  like  glass  sparkled  in 
the  hot  grey  earth.  On  the  grey  flagstone  the  red  poppy 
you  picked  yesterday  was  a  black  thread,  a  purple  stain. 

She  was  happy  sitting  on  the  grass,  drawing  the  fine, 
sharp  blades  between  her  fingers,  snifiing  the  smell  of  the 
mignonette  that  tingled  like  sweet  pepper,  opening  and 
shutting  the  yellow  mouths  of  the  snap-dragon. 

The  garden  flowers  stood  still,  straight  up  in  the  grey 
earth.  They  were  as  tall  as  you  were.  You  could  look  at 
them  a  long  time  without  being  tired. 

The  garden  flowers  were  not  like  the  animals.  The  cat 
Sarah  bumped  her  sleek  head  under  your  chin;  you  could 
feel  her  purr  throbbing  under  her  ribs  and  crackling  in  her 
throat.  The  white  rabbit  pushed  out  his  nose  to  you  and 
drew  it  in  again,  quivering,  and  breathed  his  sweet  breath 
into  your  mouth. 

The  garden  flowers  wouldn't  let  you  love  them.  They 
stood  still  in  their  beauty,  quiet,  arrogant,  reproachful. 
They  put  you  in  the  wrong.  When  you  stroked  them  they 
shook  and  swaj'ed  from  you;  when  you  held  them  tight 
their  heads  dropped,  their  backs  broke,  they  shrivelled  up 
in  your  hands.  All  the  flowers  in  the  garden  were 
Mamma's;  they  were  sacred  and  holy. 

You  loved  best  the  flowers  that  you  stooped  down  to  look 
at  and  the  flowers  that  were  not  Mamma's:  the  small 
crumpled  poppy  by  the  edge  of  the  field,  and  the  ears  of 
the  wild  rye  that  ran  up  your  sleeve  and  tickled  you,  and 
the  speedwell,  striped  like  the  blue  eyes  of  Meta,  the  wax 
doll. 


INFANCY  17 

When  you  smelt  mignonette  you  thought  of  Mamma. 

It  was  her  birthday.  Mark  had  given  iier  a  little  sumach 
tree  in  a  red  pot.  They  took  it  out  of  the  pot  and  dug  a 
hole  by  the  front  door  steps  outside  the  pantry  window  and 
planted  it  there. 

Papa  came  out  on  to  the  steps  and  watched  them. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  you  think  it'll  growf  " 

Mamma  never  turned  to  look  at  him.  She  smiled  because 
it  was  her  birthday.    She  said,  "  Of  course  it'll  grow." 

She  spread  out  its  roots  and  pressed  it  down  and  padded 
up  the  earth  about  it  with  her  hands.  It  held  out  its  tiny 
branches,  stiffly,  like  a  toy  tree,  standing  no  higher  than  the 
mignonette.  Papa  looked  at  Mamma  and  Mark,  busy  and 
happy  with  their  heads  together,  taking  no  notice  of  him. 
He  laughed  out  of  his  big  beard  and  went  back  into  the 
house  suddenly  and  slammed  the  door.  You  knew  that  he 
disliked  the  sumach  tree  and  that  he  was  angry  with  Mark 
for  giving  it  to  Mamma. 

When  you  smelt  mignonette  you  thought  of  Mamma  and 
Mark  and  the  sumach  tree,  and  Papa  standing  on  the  steps, 
and  the  queer  laugh  that  came  out  of  his  beard. 

When  it  rained  you  were  naughty  and  unhappy  because 
you  couldn't  go  out  of  doors.  Then  Mamma  stood  at  the 
window  and  looked  into  the  front  garden.  She  smiled  at 
the  rain.     She  said,  "  It  will  be  good  for  my  sumach  tree." 

Every  day  you  went  out  on  to  the  steps  to  see  if  the 
sumach  tree  had  grown. 

VIII 

The  white  lamb  stood  on  the  table  beside  her  cot. 

Mamma  put  it  there  every  night  so  that  she  could  see  it 
first  thing  in  the  morning  when  she  woke. 

She  had  had  a  birthday.  Suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  she  was  five  years  old. 

She  had  kept  on  waking  up  with  the  excitement  of  it. 
Then,  in  the  dark  twilight  of  the  room,  she  had  seen  a 
bulky  thing  inside  the  cot,  leaning  up  against  the  rail.  It 
stuck  out  queerly  and  its  weight  dragged  the  counterpane 
tight  over  her  feet. 


18  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

The  birthday  present.  What  she  saw  was  not  its  real 
shape.  When  she  poked  it,  stiff  paper  bent  in  and  crackled ; 
and  she  could  feel  something  big  and  solid  underneath. 
She  lay  quiet  and  happy,  trying  to  guess  what  it  could  be, 
and  fell  asleep  again. 

It  was  the  white  lamb.  It  stood  on  a  green  stand.  It 
smelt  of  dried  hay  and  gum  and  paint  like  the  other  toy 
animals,  but  its  white  coat  had  a  dull,  woolly  smell,  and 
that  was  the  real  smell  of  the  lamb.  Its  large,  slanting  eyes 
stared  off  over  its  ears  into  the  far  corners  of  the  room,  so 
that  it  never  looked  at  you.  This  made  her  feel  sometimes 
that  the  lamb  didn't  love  her,  and  sometimes  that  it  was 
frightened  and  wanted  to  be  comforted. 

She  trembled  when  first  she  stroked  it  and  held  it  to  her 
face,  and  sniffed  its  lamby  smell. 

Papa  looked  down  at  her.  He  was  smiling;  and  when 
she  looked  up  at  him  she  was  not  afraid.  She  had  the  same 
feeling  that  came  sometimes  when  she  sat  in  Mamma's  lap 
and  Mamma  talked  about  God  and  Jesus.  Papa  was  sacred 
and  holy. 

He  had  given  her  the  lamb. 

It  was  the  end  of  her  birthday ;  Mamma  and  Jenny  were 
putting  her  to  bed.  She  felt  weak  and  tired,  and  sad  be- 
cause it  was  all  over. 

"  Come  to  that,"  said  Jenny,  "  your  birthday  was  over  at 
five  minutes  past  twelve  this  morning." 

"  When  will  it  come  again?  " 

"  Not  for  a  whole  year,"  said  Mamma. 

"  I  wish  it  would  come  to-morrow." 

Mamma  shook  her  head  at  her.  "  You  want  to  be  spoiled 
and  petted  every  day." 

"  No.     No.     I  want  —  I  want  —  " 

"  She  doesn't  know  what  she  wants,"  said  Jenny, 

"  Yes.     I  do.     I  do." 

"  Well  —  " 

"  I  want  to  love  Papa  every  day.  'Cause  he  gave  me  my 
lamb." 

"  Oh,"  said  Mamma,  "  if  you  only  love  people  because 
they  give  you  birthday  presents — " 

"  But  I  don't  —  I  don't  —  really  and  truly  —  " 


INFANCY  19 

"  You  didn't  ought  to  have  no  more  birthdaj's,"  said 
Jenny,  "if  they  make  you  cry." 

Why  couldn't  they  see  that  crying  meant  that  she  wanted 
Papa  to  be  sacred  and  holy  every  day? 

The  day  after  the  birthday  when  Papa  went  about  the 
same  as  ever,  looking  big  and  frightening,  when  he  "  Baa'd  " 
into  her  face  and  called  out,  "  Mary  had  a  little  lamb!  "  and 
"  Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary,"  she  looked  after  him  sor- 
rowfully and  thought:  "  Papa  gave  me  my  lamb." 

IX 

One  day  Uncle  Edward  and  Aunt  Bella  came  over  from 
Chadwell  Grange.  They  were  talking  to  Mamma  a  long 
time  in  the  drawing-room,  and  when  she  came  in  they 
stopped  and  whispered. 

Roddy  told  her  the  secret.  Uncle  Edward  was  going  to 
give  her  a  live  lamb. 

Mark  and  Dank  said  it  couldn't  be  true.  Uncle  Edward 
was  not  a  real  uncle;  he  was  only  Aunt  Bella's  husband,  and 
he  never  gave  you  anything.  And  anyhow  the  lamb  wasn't 
bom  yet  and  couldn't  come  for  weeks  and  weeks. 

Every  morning  she  asked,  "  Has  my  new  lamb  come? 
When  is  it  coming?     Do  you  think  it  will  come  to-day?  " 

She  could  keep  on  sitting  still  quite  a  long  time  by  merely 
thinking  about  the  new  lamb.  It  would  run  beside  her 
when  she  played  in  the  garden.  It  would  eat  grass  out  of 
her  hand.  She  would  tie  a  ribbon  round  its  neck  and  lead 
it  up  and  down  the  lane.  At  these  moments  she  forgot  the 
toy  lamb.  It  stood  on  the  chest  of  drawers  in  the  nursery, 
looking  off  into  the  corners  of  the  room,  neglected. 

By  the  time  Uncle  Edward  and  Aunt  Bella  sent  for  her 
to  come  and  see  the  lamb,  she  knew  exactly  what  it  would  be 
like  and  what  would  happen.  She  saw  it  looking  like  the 
lambs  in  the  Bible  Picture  Book,  fat,  and  covered  with 
thick,  pure  white  wool.  She  saw  Uncle  Edward,  with  his 
yellow  face  and  big  nose  and  black  whiskers,  coming  to  her 
across  the  lawn  at  Chadwell  Grange,  carrying  the  lamb  over 
his  shoulder  like  Jesus. 

It  was  a  cold  morning.    They  drove  a  long  time  in  Uncle 


20  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Edward's  carriage,  over  the  hard,  loud  roads,  between  fields 
white  with  frost,  and  Uncle  Edward  was  not  on  his  lawn. 

Aunt  Bella  stood  in  the  big  hall,  waiting  for  them.  She 
looked  much  larger  and  more  important  than  Mamma. 

"  Aunt  Bella,  have  you  got  my  new  lamb?  " 

She  tried  not  to  shriek  it  out,  because  Aunt  Bella  was 
nearly  always  poorly,  and  Mamma  told  her  that  if  you 
shrieked  at  her  she  would  be  ill. 

Mamma  said  "  Sh-sh-sh !  "  And  Aunt  Bella  whispered 
something  and  she  heard  Mamma  answer,  "  Better  not." 

"  If  she  sees  it,"  said  Aunt  Bella,  "  she'll  understand." 

Mamma  shook  her  head  at  Aunt  Bella. 

"  Edward  would  like  it,"  said  Aunt  Bella.  "  He  wanted 
to  give  it  her  himself.     It's  his  present." 

Mamma  took  her  hand  and  they  followed  Aunt  Bella 
through  the  servants'  hall  into  the  kitchen.  The  servants 
were  all  there.  Rose  and  Annie  and  Cook,  and  Mrs.  Fisher, 
the  housekeeper,  and  Giles,  the  young  footman.  They  all 
stared  at  her  in  a  queer,  kind  way  as  she  came  in. 

A  low  screen  was  drawn  close  round  one  comer  of  the 
fireplace ;  Uncle  Edward  and  Pidgeon,  the  bailiff,,  were  doing 
something  to  it  with  a  yellow  horse-cloth. 

Uncle  Edward  came  to  her,  looking  down  the  side  of  his 
big  nose.     He  led  her  to  the  screen  and  drew  it  away. 

Something  lay  on  the  floor  wrapped  in  a  piece  of  dirty 
blanket.  When  Uncle  Edward  pushed  back  the  blanket  a 
bad  smell  came  out.  He  said,  "  Here's  your  lamb,  Mary. 
You're  just  in  time." 

She  saw  a  brownish  grey  animal  with  a  queer,  hammer- 
shaped  head  and  long  black  legs.  Its  body  was  drawn  out 
and  knotted  like  an  enormous  maggot.  It  lay  twisted  to 
one  side  and  its  eyes  were  shut. 

"  That  isn't  my  lamb." 

"  It's  the  lamb  I  always  said  Miss  Mary  was  to  have, 
isn't  it,  Pidgeon?  " 

"  Yes,  Squoire,  it's  the  lamb  you  bid  me  set  asoide  for 
little  Missy." 

"  Then,"  said  Mary,  "  why  does  it  look  like  that?  " 

"  It's  very  ill,"  Mamma  said  gently.  "  Poor  Uncle  Ed- 
ward thought  you'd  like  to  see  it  before  it  died.  You  are 
glad  you've  seen  it,  aren't  you?  " 


INFANCY  21 

"  No." 

Just  then  the  lamb  stirred  in  its  blanket;  it  opened  its 
eyes  and  looked  at  her. 

She  thought:  "  It's  my  lamb.  It  looked  at  me.  It's  my 
lamb  and  it's  dying.     My  lamb's  dying." 

The  bad  smell  came  again  out  of  the  blanket.  She  tried 
not  to  think  of  it.  She  wanted  to  sit  down  on  the  floor 
beside  the  lamb  and  lift  it  out  of  its  blanket  and  nurse  it; 
but  Mamma  wouldn't  let  her. 

When  she  got  home  Mamma  took  down  the  toy  lamb 
from  the  chest  of  drawers  and  brought  it  to  her. 

She  sat  quiet  a  long  time  holding  it  in  her  lap  and 
stroking  it. 

The  stiff  eyes  of  the  toy  lamb  stared  away  over  its  ears. 


Ill 


Jenny  was  cross  and  tugged  at  your  hair  when  she  dressed 
you  to  go  to  Chadwell  Grange. 

"  Jenny-Wee,  Mamma  says  if  I'm  not  good  Aunt  Bella 
will  be  ill.     Do  you  think  it's  really  true?  " 

Jenny  tugged.  "  I'd  thank  you  for  some  of  your  Aunt 
Bella's  illness,"  she  said. 

"  I  mean,"  Mary  said,  "  like  Papa  was  in  the  night. 
Every  time  I  get  'cited  and  jump  about  I  think  she'll  open 
her  mouth  and  begin." 

"  Well,  if  she  was  to  you'd  oughter  be  sorry  for  her." 

"  I  am  sorry  for  her.     But  I'm  frightened  too." 

"  That's  not  being  good,"  said  Jenny.  But  she  left  off 
tugging. 

Somehow  you  knew  she  was  pleased  to  think  you  were 
not  really  good  at  Aunt  Bella's,  where  Mrs.  Fisher  dressed 
and  undressed  you  and  you  were  allowed  to  talk  to  Pidgeon. 

Roddy  and  Dank  said  you  ought  to  hate  Uncle  Edward 
and  Pidgeon  and  Mrs.  Fisher,  and  not  to  like  Aunt  Bella 
very  much,  even  if  she  was  Mamma's  sister.  Mamma  didn't 
really  like  Uncle  Edward;  she  only  pretended  because  of 
Aunt  Bella, 


22  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Uncle  Edward  had  an  ugly  nose  and  a  yellow  face 
widened  by  his  black  whiskers;  his  mouth  stretched  from 
one  whisker  to  the  other,  and  his  black  hair  curled  in  large 
tufts  above  his  ears.  But  he  had  no  beard;  you  could  see 
the  whole  of  his  mouth  at  once ;  and  when  Aunt  Bella  came 
into  the  room  his  little  blue  eyes  looked  up  off  the  side  of 
his  nose  and  he  smiled  at  her  between  his  tufts  of  hair.  It 
was  dreadful  to  think  that  Mark  and  Dank  and  Roddy 
didn't  like  him.  It  might  hurt  him  so  much  that  he  would 
never  be  happy  again. 

About  Pidgeon  she  was  not  quite  sure.  Pidgeon  was  very 
ugly.  He  had  long  stiff  legs,  and  a  long  stiff  face  finished 
off  with  a  fringe  of  red  whiskers  that  went  on  under  his 
chin.  Still,  it  was  not  nice  to  think  of  Pigeon  being  unhappy 
either.  But  Mrs.  Fisher  was  large  and  rather  like  Aunt 
Bella,  only  softer  and  more  bulging.  Her  round  face  had  a 
high  red  polish  on  it  always,  and  when  she  saw  you  coming 
her  eyes  twinkled,  and  her  red  forehead  and  her  big  cheeks 
and  her  mouth  smiled  all  together  a  fat,  simmering  smile. 
When  you  got  to  the  black  and  white  marble  tiles  you  saw 
her  waiting  for  you  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

She  wanted  to  ask  Mrs.  Fisher  if  it  was  true  that  Aunt 
Bella  would  be  ill  if  she  were  naughty;  but  a  squeezing  and 
dragging  came  under  her  waist  whenever  she  thought  about 
it,  and  that  made  her  shy  and  ashamed.  It  went  when  they 
left  her  to  play  by  herself  on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  house. 

Aunt  Bella's  house  was  enormous.  Two  long  rows  of 
windows  stared  out  at  you,  their  dark  green  storm  shutters 
folded  back  on  the  yellow  brick  walls.  A  third  row  of  little 
squeezed-up  windows  and  little  squeezed-up  shutters  blinked 
in  the  narrow  space  under  the  roof.  All  summer  a  sweet 
smell  came  from  that  side  of  the  house  where  cream-coloured 
roses  hung  on  the  yellow  walls  between  the  green  shutters. 
There  was  a  cedar  tree  on  the  lawn  and  a  sun-dial  and  a 
stone  fountain.  Goldfish  swam  in  the  clear  greenish  water. 
The  flowers  in  the  round  beds  were  stiff  and  shining,  as  if 
they  had  been  cut  out  of  tin  and  freshly  painted.  When 
you  thought  of  Aunt  Bella's  garden  you  saw  calceolarias, 
brown  velvet  purses  with  yellow  spots. 

She  could  always  get  away  from  Aunt  Bella  by  going 


INFANCY  23 

down  the  dark  walk  between  the  yew  hedge  and  the  window 
of  Mrs.  Fisher's  room,  and  through  the  stable-yard  into  the 
plantation.  The  cocks  and  hens  had  their  black  timber 
house  there  in  the  clearing,  and  Ponto,  the  Newfoundland, 
lived  all  by  himself  in  his  kennel  under  the  little  ragged  fir 
trees. 

When  Ponto  saw  her  coming  he  danced  on  his  hind  legs 
and  strained  ;it  his  chain  and  called  to  her  with  his  loud, 
barking  howl.  He  played  with  her,  crawling  on  his  stomach, 
crouching,  raising  first  one  big  paw  and  then  the  other.  She 
put  out  her  foot,  and  he  caught  it  and  held  it  between  his 
big  paws,  and  looked  at  it  with  his  head  on  one  side,  smiling. 
She  squealed  with  delight,  and  Ponto  barked  again. 

The  stable  bell  would  ring  while  they  played  in  the  plan- 
tation, and  Uncle  Edward  or  Pidgeon  or  Mrs.  Fisher  would 
come  out  and  find  her  and  take  her  back  into  the  house. 
Ponto  lifted  up  his  head  and  howled  after  her  as  she  went. 

At  lunch  Mary  sat  quivering  between  Mamma  and  Aunt 
Bella.  The  squeezing  and  dragging  under  her  waist  had 
begun  again.  There  was  a  pattern  of  green  i\^  round  the 
dinner  plates  and  a  pattern  of  goats  round  the  silver  napkin 
rings.  She  tried  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  ivy  and  the  goats 
instead  of  looking  at  Aunt  Bella  to  see  whether  she  were 
going  to  be  ill.  She  would  be  if  you  left  mud  in  the  hall 
on  the  black  and  white  marble  tiles.  Or  if  you  took  Ponto 
off  the  chain  and  let  him  get  into  the  house.  Or  if  you 
spilled  the  gravy. 

Aunt  Bella's  face  was  much  pinker  and  richer  and  more 
important  than  Mamma's  face.  She  thought  she  wouldn't 
have  minded  quite  so  much  if  Aunt  Bella  had  been  white 
and  brown  and  pretty,  like  Mamma. 

There  —  she  had  spilled  the  gravy. 

Little  knots  came  in  Aunt  Bella's  pink  forehead.  Her 
face  loosened  and  swelled  with  a  red  flush ;  her  mouth  pouted 
and  drew  itself  in  again,  pulled  out  of  shape  by  something 
that  darted  up  the  side  of  her  nose  and  made  her  blink. 

She  thought:  "I  know  —  I  know  —  I  know  it's  going  to 
happen." 

It  didn't.  Aunt  Bella  only  said,  "  You  should  look  at 
your  plate  and  spoon,  dear." 


24  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LITE 

After  lunch,  when  they  were  resting,  you  could  feel 
naughtiness  coming  on.  Then  Pidgeon  carried  you  on  his 
back  to  the  calf-shed;  or  Mrs.  Fisher  took  you  up  into  her 
bedroom  to  see  her  dress. 

In  Mrs.  Fisher's  bedroom  a  smell  of  rotten  apples  oozed 
through  the  rosebud  pattern  on  the  walls.  There  were  no 
doors  inside,  only  places  in  the  wall-paper  that  opened. 
Behind  one  of  these  places  there  was  a  cupboard  where  Mrs. 
Fisher  kept  her  clothes.  Sometimes  she  would  take  the  lid 
off  the  big  box  covered  with  wall-paper  and  show  you  her 
Sunday  bonnet.  You  sat  on  the  bed,  and  she  gave  you 
peppermint  balls  to  suck  while  she  peeled  off  her  black 
merino  and  squeezed  herself  into  her  black  silk.  You 
watched  for  the  moment  when  the  brooch  with  the  black 
tomb  and  the  weeping  willow  on  it  was  undone  and  Mrs. 
Fisher's  chin  came  out  first  by  the  open  collar  and  Mrs. 
Fisher  began  to  swell.  When  she  stood  up  in  her  petticoat 
and  bodice  she  was  enormous ;  her  breasts  and  hips  and  her 
great  arms  shook  as  she  walked  about  the  room. 

Mary  was  sorry  when  she  said  good-bye  to  Uncle  Edward 
and  Aunt  Bella  and  Mrs.  Fisher. 

For,  always,  as  soon  as  she  got  home,  Roddy  rushed  at 
her  with  the  same  questions. 

''  Did  you  let  Uncle  Edward  kiss  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  talk  to  Pidgeon?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Did  you  kiss  Mrs.  Fisher?  " 

"  Yes." 

And  Dank  said,  "  Have  they  taken  Ponto  off  the  chain 
yet?  " 

"  No." 

"  Well,  then,  that  shows  you  what  pigs  they  are." 

And  when  she  saw  Mark  looking  at  her  she  felt  small  and 
silly  and  ashamed. 

n 

It  was  the  last  week  of  the  midsummer  holidays.  Mark 
and  Dank  had  gone  to  stay  for  three  days  at  Aunt  Bella's, 
and  on  the  second  day  they  had  been  sent  home. 


INFANCY  25 

Mamma  and  Roddy  were  in  the  garden  when  they  came. 
They  were  killing  snails  in  a  flower-pot  by  putting  salt  on 
them.  The  snails  turned  over  and  over  on  each  other  and 
spat  out  a  green  foam  that  covered  them  like  soapsuds  as 
they  died. 

Mark's  face  was  red  and  he  was  smiling.  Even  Dank 
looked  proud  of  himself  and  happy.  They  called  out  to- 
gether, "  We've  been  sent  home." 

Mamma  looked  up  from  her  flower-pot. 

"  What  did  you  do?  "  she  said. 

"  We  took  Ponto  off  the  chain,"  said  Dank. 

"  Did  he  get  into  the  house?  " 

"  Of  course  he  did,"  said  Mark.  "  Like  a  shot.  He  got 
into  Aunt  Bella's  bedroom,  and  Aunt  Bella  was  in  bed." 

"  Oh,  Mark! " 

"  Uncle  Edward  came  up  just  as  we  were  getting  him 
out.     He  was  in  an  awful  wax." 

"  I'm  afraid,"  Dank  said,  "  I  cheeked  him." 

"What  did  you  say?" 

"  I  told  him  he  wasn't  fit  to  have  a  dog.  And  he  said  we 
weren't  to  come  again;  and  Mark  said  that  was  all  we  had 
come  for  —  to  let  Ponto  loose." 

Mamma  put  another  snail  into  the  flower-pot,  very  gently. 
She  was  smiling  and  at  the  same  time  trying  not  to  smile. 

"  He  went  back,"  said  Mark,  ''  and  raked  it  up  again 
about  our  chasing  his  sheep,  ages  ago." 

"  Did  you  chase  the  sheep?  " 

"  No.  Of  course  we  didn't.  They  started  to  run  because 
they  saw  Pidgeon  coming,  and  Roddy  ran  after  them  till  we 
told  him  not  to.  The  mean  beast  said  we'd  made  Mary's 
lamb  die  by  frightening  its  mother.  When  he  only  gave 
it  her  because  he  knew  it  wouldn't  live.  Then  he  said  we'd 
frightened  Aunt  Bella." 

Mary  stared  at  them,  fascinated. 

"  Oh,  Mark,  was  Aunt  Bella  ill?  " 

"  Of  course  she  wasn't.  She  only  says  she's  going  to  be 
to  keep  you  quiet." 

"  Well,"  said  Mamma,  "  she  won't  be  frightened  any  more. 
He'll  not  ask  you  again." 

"  We  don't  care.     He's  not  a  bit  of  good.     He  won't  let 


26  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

us  ride  his  horses  or  climb  his  trees  or  fish  in  his  stinking 
pond." 

"  Let  Mary  go  there,"  said  Dank.  "  She  likes  it.  She 
kisses  Pidgeon." 

"  I  don't,"  she  cried.  "  I  hate  Pidgeon.  I  hate  Uncle 
Edward  and  Aunt  Bella.     I  hate  Mrs.  Fisher." 

Mamma  looked  up  from  her  flower-pot,  and,  suddenly, 
she  was  angry. 

"For  shame!  They're  kind  to  you,"  she  said.  "You 
little  naughty,  ungrateful  girl." 

"  They're  not  kind  to  Mark  and  Dank.  That's  why  I 
hate  them." 

She  wondered  why  Mamma  was  not  angry  with  Mark 
and  Dank,  who  had  let  Ponto  loose  and  frightened  Aunt 
Bella. 

IV 


That  year  when  Christmas  came  Papa  gave  her  a  red 
book  with  a  gold  holly  wreath  on  the  cover.  The  wreath 
was  made  out  of  three  words:  The  Children's  Prize,  printed 
in  letters  that  pretended  to  be  holly  sprigs.  Inside  the  holly 
wreath  was  the  number  of  the  year,  in  fat  gold  letters :  1869. 

Soon  after  Christmas  she  had  another  birthday.  She  was 
six  years  old.  She  could  write  in  capitals  and  count  up  to 
a  hundred  if  she  were  left  to  do  it  by  herself.  Besides 
"  Gentle  Jesus,"  she  could  say  "  Cock-Robin  "  and  "  The 
House  that  Jack  Built,"  and  "  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd  " 
and  "  The  Slave  in  the  Dismal  Swamp."  And  she  could 
read  all  her  own  story  books,  picking  out  the  words  she 
knew  and  making  up  the  rest.  Roddy  never  made  up.  He 
was  a  big  boy,  he  was  eight  years  old. 

The  morning  after  her  birthday  Roddy  and  she  were  sent 
into  the  drawing-room  to  Mamma.  A  strange  lady  was 
there.  She  had  chosen  the  high-backed  chair  in  the  middle 
of  the  room  with  the  Berlin  wool-work  parrot  on  it.  She 
sat  very  upright,  stiff  and  thin  between  the  twisted  rosewood 
pillars  of  the  chair.  She  was  dressed  in  a  black  gown  made 
of  a  great  many  little  bands  of  rough  crape  and  a  few 


INFANCY  27 

smooth  stretches  of  merino.  Her  crape  veil,  folded  back 
over  her  hat,  hung  behind  her  head  in  a  stiff  square.  A  jet 
necklace  lay  flat  and  heavy  on  her  small  chest.  When  you 
had  seen  all  these  black  things  she  showed  you,  suddenly, 
her  white,  wounded  face. 

Mamma  called  her  Miss  Thompson. 

Miss  Thompson's  face  was  so  light  and  thin  that  you 
thought  it  would  break  if  you  squeezed  it.  The  skin  was 
drawn  tight  over  her  jaw  and  the  bridge  of  her  nose  and  the 
sharp  naked  arches  of  her  eye-bones.  She  looked  at  you 
with  mournful,  startled  eyes  that  were  too  large  for  their 
lids ;  and  her  flat  chin  trembled  slightly  as  she  talked. 

"  This  is  Rodney,"  she  said,  as  if  she  were  repeating  a 
lesson  after  Mamma. 

Rodney  leaned  up  against  Mamma  and  looked  proud  and 
handsome.  She  had  her  arm  round  him,  and  every  now  and 
then  she  pressed  it  tighter  to  draw  him  to  herself. 

Miss  Thompson  said  after  Mamma,  "  And  this  is  Mary." 

Her  mournful  eyes  moved  and  sparkled  as  if  she  had 
suddenly  thought  of  something  for  herself. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  said,  "  they  will  be  very  good." 

Mamma  shook  her  head,  as  much  as  to  say  Miss  Thomp- 
son must  not  build  on  it. 

Every  weekday  from  ten  to  twelve  Miss  Thompson  came 
and  taught  them  reading,  writing  and  arithmetic.  Every 
Wednesday  at  half-past  eleven  the  boys'  tutor,  Mr.  Sippett, 
looked  in  and  taught  Rodney  "  Mensa,  a  table." 

Mamma  told  them  they  must  never  be  naughty  with 
Miss  Thompson  because  her  mother  was  dead. 

They  went  away  and  talked  about  her  among  the  goose- 
berry bushes  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

"  I  don't  know  how  we're  going  to  manage,"  Rodney  said. 
"  There's  no  sense  in  saying  we  mustn't  be  naughty  because 
her  mother's  dead." 

"  I  suppose,"  Mary  said,  "  it  w^ould  make  her  think  she's 
deader." 

"  We  can't  help  that.  We've  got  to  be  naughty  some 
time." 

"  We  mustn't  begin,"  Mary  said.  "  If  we  begin  we  shall 
have  to  finish." 


28  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

They  were  good  for  four  daj^s,  from  ten  to  twelve.  And 
at  a  quarter  past  twelve  on  the  fifth  day  Mamma  found 
Mary  crying  in  the  dining-room. 

"  Oh,  Mary,  have  you  been  naughty?  " 

"  No ;  but  I  shall  be  to-morrow.  I've  been  so  good  that 
I  can't  keep  on  any  longer." 

Mamma  took  her  in  her  lap.  She  lowered  her  head  to 
you,  holding  it  straight  and  still,  ready  to  pounce  if  you 
said  the  wrong  thing. 

"  Being  good  when  it  pleases  you  isn't  being  good,"  she 
said.  "  It's  not  what  Jesus  means  by  being  good.  God 
wants  us  to  be  good  all  the  time,  like  Jesus." 

"  But  —  Jesus  and  me  is  different.  He  wasn't  able  to  be 
naughty.     And  I'm  not  able  to  be  good.     Not  all  the  time." 

"  You're  not  able  to  be  good  of  your  own  will  and  in 
your  own  strength.  You're  not  good  till  God  makes  you 
good." 

"  Did  God  make  me  naughty?  " 

"  No.     God  couldn't  make  anybody  naughty." 

"  Not  if  he  tried  hardf  " 

"  No.  But,"  said  Mamma,  speaking  very  fast,  "  he'll 
make  you  good  if  you  ask  him." 

"  Will  he  make  me  good  if  I  don't  ask  him?  " 

"  No,"  said  Mamma. 


n 

Miss  Thompson  — 

She  was  always  sure  you  would  be  good.  And  Mamma 
was  sure  you  wouldn't  be,  or  that  if  you  were  it  would  be 
for  some  bad  reason  like  being  sorry  for  Miss  Thompson. 

As  long  as  Roddy  was  in  the  room  Mary  was  sorry  for 
Miss  Thompson.  And  when  she  was  left  alone  with  her  she 
was  frightened.  The  squeezing  and  dragging  under  her 
waist  began  when  Miss  Thompson  pushed  her  gentle,  mourn- 
ful face  close  up  to  see  what  she  was  doing. 

She  was  afraid  of  Miss  Thompson  because  her  mother 
was  dead. 

She  kept  on  thinking  about  Miss  Thompson's  mother. 
Miss  Thompson's  mother  would  be  like  Jenny  in  bed  with 


INFANCY  29 

her  cap  off;  and  she  would  be  like  the  dead  field  mouse  that 
Roddy  found  in  the  lane.  She  would  lie  on  the  bed  with 
her  back  bent  and  her  head  hanging  loose  like  the  dear  little 
field  mouse ;  and  her  legs  would  be  turned  up  over  her  stom- 
ach like  his,  toes  and  fingers  clawing  together.  When  you 
touched  her  she  would  be  cold  and  stiff,  like  the  field  mouse. 
They  had  wrapped  her  up  in  a  white  sheet.  Roddy  said 
dead  people  were  always  wrapped  up  in  white  sheets.  And 
Mr.  Chapman  had  put  her  into  a  coffin  like  the  one  he  was 
making  when  he  gave  Dank  the  wood  for  the  rabbit's  house. 

Every  time  Miss  Thompson  came  near  her  she  saw  the 
white  sheet  and  smelt  the  sharp,  bitter  smell  of  the  coffin. 

If  she  was  naughty  Miss  Thompson  (who  seemed  to  have 
forgotten)  would  remember  that  her  mother  was  dead.  It 
might  happen  any  minute. 

It  never  did.  For  Miss  Thompson  said  you  were  good  if 
you  knew  your  lessons ;  and  at  the  same  time  you  were  not 
naughty  if  you  didn't  know  them.  You  might  not  know 
them  to-day;  but  you  would  know  them  to-morrow  or  the 
next  day. 

By  midsummer  Mary  could  read  the  books  that  Dank 
read.  If  it  had  not  been  for  Mr.  Sippett  and  "  Mensa:  a 
table,"  she  would  have  known  as  much  as  Roddy. 

Almost  before  they  had  time  to  be  naughty  Miss  Thomp- 
son had  gone.  Mamma  said  that  Roddy  was  not  getting  on 
fast  enough. 


The  book  that  Aunt  Bella  had  brought  her  was  called 
The  Triumph  Over  Midian,  and  Aunt  Bella  said  that  if  she 
was  a  good  girl  it  would  interest  her.  But  it  did  not  inter- 
est her.  That  was  how  she  heard  Aunt  Bella  and  Mamma 
talking  together. 

Mamma's  foot  was  tapping  on  the  footstool,  which  showed 
that  she  was  annoyed. 

"  They're  coming  to-morrow,"  she  said,  "  to  look  at  that 
house  at  Ilford." 

"  To  live?  "  Aunt  Bella  said. 


30  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  To  live,"  Mamma  said. 

"  And  is  Emilius  going  to  allow  it?  What's  Victor  think- 
ing of,  bringing  her  down  here?  " 

"  They  want  to  be  near  Emilius.  They  think  he'll  look 
after  her." 

"  It  was  Victor  who  would  have  her  at  home,  and  Victor 
might  look  after  her  himself.     She  was  his  favourite  sister." 

"  He  doesn't  want  to  be  too  responsible.  They  think 
Emilius  ought  to  take  his  share." 

Aunt  Bella  whispered  something.  And  Mamma  said, 
"  Stuff  and  nonsense!  No  more  than  you  or  I.  Only  you 
never  know  what  queer  thing  she'll  do  next." 

Aunt  Bella  said,  ''  She  was  always  queer  as  long  as  I 
remember  her." 

Mamma's  foot  went  tap,  tap  again. 

"  She's  been  sending  away  things  worse  than  ever.  Dolls. 
Those  naked  ones." 

Aunt  Bella  gave  herself  a  shake  and  said  something  that 
sounded  like  "  Goo-oo-sh !  "  And  then,  "  Going  to  be 
married?  " 

Mamma  said,  "  Going  to  be  married." 

And  Aunt  Bella  said  "  T-t-t." 

They  were  talking  about  Aunt  Charlotte. 

Mamma  went  on:  ^'  She's  packed  off  all  her  clothes.  Her 
new  ones.  Sent  them  to  Matilda.  Thinks  she  won't  have 
to  wear  them  any  more." 

"  You  mustn't  expect  me  to  have  Charlotte  Olivier  in  my 
house,"  Aunt  Bella  said.  "  If  anybody  came  to  call  it  would 
be  most  unpleasant." 

"  I  wouldn't  mind,"  Mamma  said,  tap-tapping,  "  if  it  was 
only  Charlotte,     But  there's  Lavvy  and  her  Opinions." 

Aunt  Bella  said  "  Pfoo-oof !  "  and  waved  her  hands  as  if 
she  were  clearing  the  air. 

"  All  I  can  say  is,"  Mamma  said,  "  that  if  Lavvy  Olivier 
brings  her  Opinions  into  this  house  Emilius  and  I  will  walk 
out  of  it." 

To-morrow  —  they  were  coming  to-morrow,  Uncle  Victor 
and  Aunt  Lavvy  and  Aunt  Charlotte. 


INFANCY  31 


n 

They  were  coming  to  lunch,  and  everybody  was  excited. 

Mark  and  Dank  were  in  their  trousers  and  Eton  jackets, 
and  Roddy  in  his  new  bhick  velvet  suit.  The  drawing- 
room  was  dressed  out  in  its  green  summer  chintzes  that 
shone  and  crackled  with  glaze.  Mamma  had  moved  the  big 
Chinese  bowl  from  the  cabinet  to  the  round  mahogany  table 
and  filled  it  with  white  roses.  You  could  see  them  again 
in  the  polish;  blurred  white  faces  swimming  on  the  dark, 
wine-coloured  pool.  You  held  out  your  face  to  be  washed 
in  the  clear,  cool  scent  of  the  white  roses. 

When  Mark  opened  the  door  a  smell  of  roast  chicken 
came  up  the  kitchen  stairs. 

It  was  like  Sunday,  except  that  you  were  excited. 

"  Look  at  Papa,"  Roddy  whispered.     "  Papa's  excited." 

Papa  had  come  home  early  from  the  office.  He  stood  by 
the  fireplace  in  the  long  tight  frock-coat  that  made  him  look 
enormous.  He  had  twirled  back  his  moustache  to  show  his 
rich  red  mouth.  He  had  put  something  on  his  beard  that 
smelt  sweet.  You  noticed  for  the  first  time  how  the  frizzed, 
red-brown  mass  sprang  from  a  peak  of  silky  golden  hair 
under  his  pouting  lower  lip.  He  was  letting  himself  gently 
up  and  down  with  the  tips  of  his  toes,  and  he  was  smiling, 
secretly,  as  if  he  had  just  thought  of  something  that  he 
couldn't  tell  Mamma.  Whenever  he  looked  at  Mamma  she 
put  her  hand  up  to  her  hair  and  patted  it. 

Mamma  had  done  her  hair  a  new  way.  The  brown  plait 
stood  up  farther  back  on  the  edge  of  the  sloping  chignon. 
She  wore  her  new  lavender  and  white  striped  muslin. 
Lavender  ribbon  streamed  from  the  pointed  opening  of  her 
bodice,  A  black  velvet  ribbon  was  tied  tight  round  her 
neck;  a  jet  cross  hung  from  it  and  a  diamond  star  twinkled 
in  the  middle  of  the  cross.  She  pushed  out  her  mouth  and 
drew  it  in  again,  like  Roddy's  rabbit,  and  the  tip  of  her  nose 
trembled  as  if  it  knew  all  the  time  what  Papa  was  thinking. 

She  was  so  soft  and  pretty  that  you  could  hardly  bear  it. 
Mark  stood  behind  her  chair  and  when  Papa  was  not  looking 
he  kissed  her.  The  behaviour  of  her  mouth  and  nose  ga\e 
you  a  delicious  feeling  that  with  Aunt  Lavvy  and  Aunt 
Charlotte  you  wouldn't  have  to  be  so  very  good. 


32  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

The  front  door  bell  rang.  Papa  and  Mamma  looked  at 
each  other,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  Now  it's  going  to  begin." 
And  suddenly  Mamma  looked  small  and  frightened.  She 
took  Mark's  hand. 

"  Emilius,"  she  said,  "  what  am  I  to  say  to  Lavinia?  " 

"  You  don't  say  anything,"  Papa  said.  "  Mary  can  talk 
to  Lavinia." 

Mary  jumped  up  and  down  with  excitement.  She  knew 
how  it  would  be.  In  another  minute  Aunt  Charlotte  would 
come  in,  dressed  in  her  black  lace  shawl  and  crinoline,  and 
Aunt  Lavvy  would  bring  her  Opinions.  And  something, 
something  that  you  didn't  know,  would  happen. 

ni 

Aunt  Charlotte  came  in  first  with  a  tight,  dancing  run. 
You  knew  her  by  the  long  black  curls  on  her  shoulders.  She 
was  smiling  as  she  smiled  in  the  album.  She  bent  her  head 
as  she  bent  it  in  the  album,  and  her  eyes  looked  up  close 
under  her  black  eyebrows  and  pointed  at  you.  Pretty  — 
pretty  blue  eyes,  and  something  frightening  that  made  you 
look  at  them.  And  something  queer  about  her  narrow  jaw. 
It  thrust  itself  forward,  jerking  up  her  smile. 

No  black  lace  shawl  and  no  crinoline.  Aunt  Charlotte 
wore  a  blue  and  black  striped  satin  dress,  bunched  up  behind, 
and  a  little  hat  perched  on  the  top  of  her  chignon  and  tied 
underneath  it  with  blue  ribbons. 

She  had  got  in  and  was  kissing  everybody  while  Aunt 
Lavvy  and  Uncle  Victor  were  fumbling  with  the  hat  stand 
in  the  hall. 

Aunt  Lavvy  came  next.  A  long  grey  face.  Black  bands 
of  hair  parted  on  her  broad  forehead.  Black  eyebrows ;  blue 
eyes  that  stuck  out  wide,  that  didn't  point  at  you.  A  grey 
bonnet,  a  grey  dress,  a  little  white  shawl  with  a  narrow 
fringe,  drooping. 

She  walked  slowly  —  slowly,  as  if  she  were  still  thinking 
of  something  that  was  not  in  the  room,  as  if  she  came  into  a 
quiet,  empty  room. 

You  thought  at  first  she  was  never  going  to  kiss  you,  she 
was  so  tall  and  her  face  and  eyes  held  themselves  so  still. 


INFANCY  33 

Uncle  Victor.  Dark  and  white;  smaller  than  Papa, 
smaller  than  Aunt  Lavvy;  thin  in  his  loose  frock-coat.  His 
forehead  and  black  eyebrows  were  twisted  above  his  blue, 
beautiful  eyes.  He  had  a  small  dark  brown  moustache  and 
a  small  dark  brown  beard,  trimmed  close  and  shaped 
prettily  to  a  point.  He  looked  like  something,  like  some- 
body; like  Dank  when  he  was  mournful,  like  Dank's  dog, 
Tibby,  when  he  hid  from  Papa.  He  said,  "  Well,  Caroline. 
Well,  Emilius." 

Aunt  Charlotte  gave  out  sharp  cries  of  "Dear!"  and 
"Darling!"  and  smothered  them  against  your  face  in  a 
sort  of  moan. 

When  she  came  to  Roddy  she  put  up  her  hands. 

"  Roddy  —  yellow  hair.  No.  No.  What  have  you  done 
with  the  blue  eyes  and  black  hair,  Emilius?  That  comes  of 
letting  your  beard  grow  so  long." 

Then  they  all  went  into  the  dining-room. 

It  was  like  a  birthday.  There  was  to  be  real  blanc- 
mange, and  preserved  ginger,  and  you  drank  raspberry  vin- 
egar out  of  the  silver  christening  cups  the  aunts  and  uncles 
gave  you  when  you  were  born.  Uncle  Victor  had  given 
Mary  hers.    She  held  it  up  and  read  her  own  name  on  it. 

MARY  VICTORIA  OLIVIER 
1863. 

They  were  all  telling  their  names.  Mary  took  them  up 
and  chanted  them:  "  Mark  Emilius  Olivier;  Daniel  Olivier; 
Rodney  Olivier;  Victor  Justus  Olivier;  Lavinia  Mary 
Olivier;  Charlotte  Louisa  Olivier."  She  liked  the  sound  of 
them. 

She  sat  between  Uncle  Victor  and  Aunt  Lawy.  Roddy 
was  squeezed  into  the  corner  between  Mamma  and  Mark. 
Aunt  Charlotte  sat  opposite  her  between  Mark  and  Daniel. 
She  had  to  look  at  Aunt  Charlotte's  face.  There  were  faint 
grey  smears  on  it  as  if  somebody  had  scribbled  all  over  it 
with  pencil. 

A  remarkable  conversation. 

"  Aunt  Lavvy !  Aunt  Lavvy !  Have  you  brought  your 
Opinions?  " 


34  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  No,  my  dear,  they  were  not  invited.  So  I  left  them  at 
home." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  Papa  said. 

"  Will  you  bring  them  next  time?  " 

"  No.  Not  next  time,  nor  any  other  time,"  Aunt  Lawy 
said,  looking  straight  at  Papa. 

"  Did  you  shut  them  up  in  the  stair  cupboard?  " 

"  No,  but  I  may  have  to  some  day." 

"  Then,"  Mary  said,  "  if  there  are  any  little  ones,  may  I 
have  one?  " 

"  May  she,  Emilius?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  Papa  said.  "  She's  got  too  many  little 
opinions  of  her  own." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  opinions?  "  Uncle  Victor  said. 

Mary  was  excited  and  happy.  She  had  never  been  al- 
lowed to  talk  so  much.  She  tried  to  eat  her  roast  chicken 
in  a  business-like,  grown-up  manner,  while  she  talked. 

"  I've  read  about  them,"  she  said.  "  They  are  dear  little 
animals  with  long  furry  tails,  much  bigger  than  Sarah's  tail, 
and  they  climb  up  trees." 

"  Oh,  they  climb  up  trees,  do  they?  "  Uncle  Victor  was 
very  polite  and  attentive. 

"  Yes.  There's  their  picture  in  Bank's  Natural  History 
Book.  Next  to  the  Ornythrincus  or  Duck-billed  Plat-i-pus. 
If  they  came  into  the  house  Mamma  would  be  frightened. 
But  I  would  not  be  frightened.     I  should  stroke  them." 

"  Do  you  think,"  Uncle  Victor  said,  still  politely,  "  you 
quite  know  what  you  mean?  " 

"  /  know,"  Daniel  said,  "  she  means  opossums." 

"  Yes,"  Mary  said.     "  Opossums." 

"  What  are  opinions?  " 

"  Opinions,"  Papa  said,  "  are  things  that  people  put  in 
other  people's  heads.     Nasty,  dangerous  things,  opinions." 

She  thought:  "That  was  why  Mamma  and  Papa  were 
frightened." 

"  You  won't  put  them  into  Mamma's  head,  will  you, 
Aunt  Lavvy?  " 

Mamma  said,  "  Get  on  with  your  dinner.  Papa's  only 
teasing." 

Aunt  Lavvy's  face  flushed  slowly,  and  she  held  her  mouth 


INFANCY  35 

tight,  as  if  she  were  trying  not  to  cry.  Papa  was  teasing 
Aunt  Lavvy. 

"  How  do  you  like  that  Ilford  house,  Charlotte?  "  Mamma 
asked  suddenly. 

"  It's  the  nicest  little  house  you  ever  saw,"  Aunt  Charlotte 
said.  "  But  it's  too  far  away.  I'd  rather  have  any  ugly, 
poky  old  den  that  was  next  door.  I  want  to  see  all  I  can 
of  you  and  Emilius  and  Dan  and  little  darling  Mary.  Be- 
fore I  go  away." 

"  You  aren't  thinking  of  going  away  when  you've  only 
just  come?  " 

"  That's  what  Victor  and  Lavinia  say.  But  you  don't 
suppose  I'm  going  to  stay  an  old  maid  all  my  life  to  please 
Victor  and  Lavinia." 

"  I  haven't  thought  about  it  at  all,"  Mamma  said. 

"  They  have.  /  know  what  they're  thinking.  But  it's  all 
settled.  I'm  going  to  Marshall  and  Snelgrove's  for  my 
things.  There's  a  silver-grey  poplin  in  their  window.  If 
I  decide  on  it,  Caroline,  you  shall  have  my  grey  watered  silk. 

"You  needn't  waggle  your  big  beard  at  me,  Emilius," 
Aunt  Charlotte  said. 

Papa  pretended  that  he  hadn't  heard  her  and  began  to 
talk  to  Uncle  Victor. 

"  Did  you  read  John  Bright's  speech  in  Parliament  last 
night?  " 

Uncle  Victor  said,  "  I  did." 

"  What  did  you  think  of  it?  " 

Uncle  Victor  raised  his  shoulders  and  his  eyebrows  and 
spread  out  his  thin,  small  hands. 

"  A  man  with  a  face  like  that,"  Aunt  Charlotte  said, 
*'  oughtn't  to  be  in  Parliament." 

"  He's  the  man  who  saved  England,"  said  Papa. 

"  What's  the  good  of  that  if  he  can't  save  himself?  Where 
does  he  expect  to  go  to  with  the  hats  he  wears?  " 

"  Where  does  Emilius  expect  to  go  to,"  Uncle  Victor  said, 
"  when  his  John  Bright  and  his  Gladstone  get  their  way?  " 

Suddenly  Aunt  Charlotte  left  off  smiling. 

"  Emilius,"  she  said,  "  do  you  uphold  Gladstone?  " 

"  Of  course  I  uphold  Gladstone.  There's  nobody  in  this 
country  fit  to  black  his  boots." 


36  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  I  know  nothing  about  his  boots.  But  he's  an  infidel. 
He  wants  to  pull  down  the  Church.  I  thought  you  were  a 
Churchman?  " 

"  So  I  am,"  Papa  said.  "  I've  too  good  an  opinion  of  the 
Church  to  imagine  that  it  can't  stand  alone." 

"  You're  a  nice  one  to  talk  about  opinions." 

"  At  any  rate  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that,"  said  Aunt  Charlotte. 

Aunt  Lavvy  smiled  gently  at  the  pattern  of  the  tablecloth. 

"  Do  you  agree  with  him,  Lawy?  "  Mamma  had  found 
something  to  say. 

"  I  agree  with  him  better  than  he  agrees  with  himself." 

A  long  conversation  about  things  that  interested  Papa. 
Blanc-mange  going  round  the  table,  quivering  and  shaking 
and  squelching  under  the  spoon. 

"  There's  a  silver-grey  poplin,"  said  Aunt  Charlotte,  "  at 
Marshall  and  Snelgrove's." 

The  blanc-mange  was  still  going  round.  Mamma  watched 
it  as  it  went.  She  was  fascinated  by  the  shivering,  white 
blanc-mange. 

"  If  there  was  only  one  man  in  the  world,"  Aunt  Charlotte 
said  in  a  loud  voice,  "  and  he  had  a  flowing  beard,  I  wouldn't 
marry  him." 

Papa  drew  himself  up.  He  looked  at  Mark  and  Daniel 
and  Roddy  as  if  he  were  saying,  "  Whoever  takes  notice 
leaves  the  room." 

Roddy  laughed  first.     He  was  sent  out  of  the  room. 

Papa  looked  at  Mark.  Mark  clenched  his  teeth,  holding 
his  laugh  down  tight.  He  seemed  to  think  that  as  long  as 
it  didn't  come  out  of  his  mouth  he  was  safe.  It  came  out 
through  his  nose  like  a  loud,  tearing  sneeze.  Mark  was  sent 
out  of  the  room. 

Daniel  threw  down  his  spoon  and  fork. 

"  If  he  goes,  I  go,"  Daniel  said,  and  followed  him. 

Papa  looked  at  Mary. 

"  What  are  you  grinning  at,  you  young  monkey?  " 

"  Emilius,"  said  Aunt  Charlotte,  "  if  you  send  another 
child  out  of  the  room,  I  go  too." 

Mary  squealed,  "  Tee-he-he-he-he-/iee.^  Te-hee! "  and 
was  sent  out  of  the  room. 


INFANCY  37 

She  and  Aunt  Charlotte  sat  on  the  stairs  outside  the 
dining-room  door.  Aunt  Charlotte's  arm  was  round  her; 
every  now  and  then  it  gave  her  a  sudden,  loving  squeeze. 

"  Darling  Mary,  Little  darling  Mary,  Love  Aunt  Char- 
lotte," she  said. 

Mark  and  Dank  and  Roddy  watched  them  over  the 
banisters. 

Aunt  Charlotte  put  her  hand  deep  down  in  her  pocket  and 
brought  out  a  little  parcel  wrapped  in  white  paper.  She 
whispered: 

"  If  I  give  you  something  to  keep,  will  you  promise  not 
to  show  it  to  anybody  and  not  to  tell?  " 

Mary  promised. 

Inside  the  paper  wrapper  there  was  a  match-box,  and 
inside  the  match-box  there  was  a  china  doll  no  bigger  than 
your  finger.  It  had  blue  eyes  and  black  hair  and  no  clothes 
on.    Aimt  Charlotte  held  it  in  her  hand  and  smiled  at  it. 

"  That's  Aunt  Charlotte's  little  baby,"  she  said.  "  I'm 
going  to  be  married  and  I  shan't  want  it  any  more. 

"There  —  take  it,  and  cover  it  up,  quick!" 

Mamma  had  come  out  of  the  dining-room.  She  shut  the 
door  behind  her. 

"  What  have  you  given  to  Mary?  "  she  said. 

"  Butter-Scotch,"  said  Aunt  Charlotte. 

IV 

All  afternoon  till  tea-time  Papa  and  Uncle  Victor  walked 
up  and  down  the  garden  path,  talking  to  each  other.  Every 
now  and  then  Mark  and  Mary  looked  at  them  from  the 
nursery  window. 

That  night  she  dreamed  that  she  saw  Aunt  Charlotte 
standing  at  the  foot  of  the  kitchen  stairs  taking  off  her 
clothes  and  wrapping  them  in  white  paper;  first,  her  black 
lace  shawl;  then  her  chemise.  She  stood  up  without  any- 
thing on.  Her  body  was  polished  and  shining  like  an  enor- 
mous white  china  doll.  She  lowered  her  head  and  pointed 
at  you  with  her  eyes. 

When  you  opened  the  stair  cupboard  door  to  catch  the 
opossum,  you  found  a  white  china  doll  lying  in  it,  no  bigger 
than  your  finger.    That  was  Aunt  Charlotte. 


38  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

In  the  dream  there  was  no  break  between  the  end  and 
the  beginning.  But  when  she  remembered  it  afterwards  it 
split  into  two  pieces  with  a  dark  gap  between.  She  knew 
she  had  only  dreamed  about  the  cupboard ;  but  Aunt  Char- 
lotte at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  was  so  clear  and  solid  that 
she  thought  she  had  really  seen  her. 

Mamma  had  told  Aunt  Bella  all  about  it  when  they  talked 
together  that  day,  in  the  drawing-room.  She  knew  because 
she  could  still  see  them  sitting,  bent  forward  with  their 
heads  touching,  Aunt  Bella  in  the  big  arm-chair  by  the 
hearth-rug,  and  Mamma  on  the  parrot  chair. 


END   OF  BOOK  ONE 


BOOK   TWO 

CHILDHOOD 
1869-1875 


BOOK   TWO 

CHILDHOOD 
VI 


When  Christmas  came  Papa  gave  her  another  Children's 
Prize.  This  time  the  cover  was  blue  and  the  number  on  it 
was  1870.  Eighteen-seventy  was  the  name  of  the  New  Year 
that  was  coming  after  Christmas.  It  meant  that  the  world 
had  gone  on  for  one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  seventj^ 
years  since  Jesus  was  born.  Every  year  she  was  to  have  a 
Children's  Prize  with  the  name  of  the  New  Year  on  it. 

Eighteen-seventy  was  a  beautiful  number.  It  sounded 
nice,  and  there  was  a  seven  in  it.  Seven  was  a  sacred  and 
holy  number;  so  was  three,  because  of  the  three  Persons, 
the  Father,  the  Son  and  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  because  of  the 
seven  stars  and  the  seven  golden  candlesticks.  When  you 
said  good-night  to  Mamma  you  kissed  her  either  three  times 
or  seven  times.  If  you  went  past  three  you  had  to  go  on 
to  seven,  because  something  dreadful  would  happen  if  you 
didn't.  Sometimes  Mamma  stopped  you;  then  you  stooped 
down  and  finished  up  on  the  hem  of  her  dress,  quick,  before 
she  could  see  you. 

She  was  glad  that  the  Children's  Prize  had  a  blue  cover, 
because  blue  was  a  sacred  and  holy  colour.  It  was  the 
colour  of  the  ceiling  in  St.  Mary's  Chapel  at  Ilford,  and  it 
was  the  colour  of  the  Virgin  Mary's  dress. 

There  were  golden  stars  all  over  the  ceiling  of  St.  Mary's 
Chapel.  Roddy  and  she  were  sent  there  after  they  had  had 
chicken-pox  and  when  their  whooping-cough  was  getting 
better.    They  were  not  allowed  to  go  to  the  church  at  Bark- 

41 


42  MARY    OLIVIER:    A    LIFE 

ingside  for  fear  of  giving  whooping-cough  to  the  children  in 
Dr.  Bamardo's  Homes;  and  they  were  not  allowed  to  go  to 
Aldborough  Hatch  Church  because  of  Mr.  Propart's  pupils. 
But  they  had  to  go  to  church  somewhere,  whooping-cough 
or  no  whooping-cough,  in  order  to  get  to  Heaven;  so  Mark 
took  them  to  the  Chapel  of  Ease  at  Ilford,  where  the  Virgin 
Mary  in  a  blue  dress  stood  on  a  sort  of  step  over  the  door. 
Mamma  said  you  were  not  to  worship  her,  though  you  might 
look  at  her.  She  was  a  graven  image.  Only  Roman  Catho- 
lics worshipped  graven  images;  they  were  heretics;  that 
meant  that  they  were  shut  outside  the  Church  of  England, 
which  was  God's  Church,  and  couldn't  get  in.  And  they 
had  only  half  a  Sunday.  In  Roman  Catholic  countries  Sun- 
day was  all  over  at  twelve  o'clock,  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
day  the  Roman  Catholics  could  do  just  what  they  pleased; 
they  danced  and  went  to  theatres  and  played  games,  as  if 
Sunday  was  one  of  their  own  days  and  not  God's  day. 

She  wished  she  had  been  born  in  a  Roman  Catholic 
country. 

Every  night  she  took  the  Children's  Prize  to  bed  with  her 
to  keep  her  safe.  It  had  Bible  Puzzles  in  it,  and  among 
them  there  was  a  picture  of  the  Name  of  God.  A  shining 
white  light,  shaped  like  Mamma's  vinaigrette,  with  black 
marks  in  the  middle.  Mamma  said  the  light  was  the  light 
that  shone  above  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant,  and  the  black 
marks  were  letters  and  the  word  was  the  real  name  of  God. 
She  said  he  was  sometimes  called  Jehovah,  but  that  was  not 
his  real  name.  His  real  name  was  a  secret  name  which 
nobody  but  the  High  Priest  was  allowed  to  say. 

When  you  lay  in  the  dark  and  shut  your  eyes  tight  and 
waited,  you  could  see  the  light,  shaped  like  the  vinaigrette, 
in  front  of  you.  It  quivered  and  shone  brighter,  and  you 
saw  in  the  middle,  first,  a  dark  blue  colour,  and  then  the 
black  marks  that  were  the  real  name  of  God.  She  was  glad 
she  couldn't  read  it,  for  she  would  have  been  certain  to  let 
it  out  some  day  when  she  wasn't  thinking. 

Perhaps  Mamma  knew,  and  was  not  allowed  to  say  it. 
Supposing  she  forgot? 

At  church  they  sang  "  Praise  Him  in  His  name  Jah  and 
rejoice  before  Him."    Jah  was  God's  pet-name,  short  for 


CHILDHOOD  43 

Jehovah.  It  was  a  silly  name  —  Jah.  Somehow  you 
couldn't  help  thinking  of  God  as  a  silly  person;  he  was 
always  flying  into  tempers,  and  he  was  jealous.  He  was 
like  Papa.  Dank  said  Papa  was  jealous  of  Mark  because 
Mamma  was  so  fond  of  him.  There  was  a  picture  of  God 
in  the  night  nursery.  He  had  a  big  flowing  beard,  and  a  very 
straight  nose,  like  Papa,  and  he  was  lying  on  a  sort  of  sofa 
that  was  a  cloud.  Little  Jesus  stood  underneath  him,  be- 
tween the  Virgin  Mary  and  Joseph,  and  the  Holy  Ghost 
was  descending  on  him  in  the  form  of  a  dove.  His  real 
name  was  Jesus  Christ,  but  they  called  him  Emmanuel. 

"  There  is  a  fountain  filled  with  blood 
Drawn  from  Emmanuel's  veins; 
And  sinners  plunged  beneath  that  flood 
Lose  all  their  guilty  stains." 

That  was  another  frightening  thing.  It  would  be  like  the 
fountain  in  Aunt  Bella's  garden,  with  blood  in  it  instead  of 
water.     The  goldfishes  would  die. 

Mark  was  pleased  when  she  said  that  Sarah  wouldn't  be 
allowed  to  go  to  Heaven  because  she  would  try  to  catch  the 
Holy  Ghost. 

Jesus  was  not  like  God,  He  was  good  and  kind.  When 
he  grew  up  he  was  always  dressed  in  pink  and  blue,  and 
he  had  sad  dark  eyes  and  a  little,  close,  tidy  beard  like 
Uncle  Victor.    You  could  love  Jesus. 

Jenny  loved  him.  She  was  a  Wesleyan;  and  her  niece 
Catty  was  a  Wesleyan.  Catty  marched  round  and  round 
the  kitchen  table  with  the  dish-cloth,  drying  the  plates  and 
singing: 

"  *  I  love  Jesus,  yes,  I  do, 
For  the  Bible  tells  me  to! ' " 
and 

"  *  I  am  so  glad  that  my  Father  in  Heaven 

Tells  of  His  love  in  the  book  He  has  given  — ■ 
I  am  so  glad  that  Jesus  loves  me, 
Jesus  loves  me, 
Jesus  loves  even  me! '  " 

On  New  Year's  Eve  Jenny  and  Catty  went  to  the  Wes- 
leyan Chapel  at  Ilford  to  sing  the  New  Year  in.     Catty 


44  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

talked  about  the  Old  Year  as  if  it  was  horrid  and  the  New 
Year  as  if  it  was  nice.  She  said  that  at  twelve  o'clock  you 
ought  to  open  the  window  wide  and  let  the  Old  Year  go  out 
and  the  New  Year  come  in.  If  you  didn't  something  dread- 
ful would  happen. 

Downstairs  there  was  a  party.  Uncle  Victor  and  Aunt 
Lav\^y  and  Aunt  Charlotte  were  there,  and  the  big  boys  from 
Vinings  and  the  Vicarage  at  Aldborough  Hatch.  Mark  and 
Dank  and  Roddy  were  sitting  up,  and  Roddy  had  promised 
to  wake  her  when  the  New  Year  was  coming. 

He  left  the  door  open  so  that  she  could  hear  the  clock 
strike  twelve.  She  got  up  and  opened  the  windows  ready. 
There  were  three  in  Mamma's  room.     She  opened  them  all. 

The  air  outside  was  like  clear  black  water  and  very  cold. 
You  couldn't  see  the  garden  wall ;  the  dark  fields  were  close 
—  close  against  the  house.     One  —  Two  —  Three. 

Seven  —  When  the  last  stroke  sounded  the  New  Year 
would  have  come  in. 

Ten  —  Eleven  —  Twelve. 

The  bells  rang  out;  the  bells  of  Ilford,  the  bells  of  Bark- 
ingside,  and  far  beyond  the  flats  and  the  cemetery  there 
would  be  Bow  bells,  and  beyond  that  the  bells  of  the  City  of 
London.  They  clanged  together  and  she  trembled.  The 
sounds  closed  over  her;  they  left  off  and  began  again,  not 
very  loud,  but  tight  —  tight,  crushing  her  heart,  crushing 
tears  out  of  her  eyelids.  When  the  bells  stopped  there  was 
a  faint  whirring  sound.  That  was  the  Old  Year,  that  was 
eighteen  sixty-nine,  going  out  by  itself  in  the  dark,  going 
away  over  the  fields. 

Mamma  was  not  pleased  when  she  came  to  bed  and  found 
the  door  and  windows  open  and  Mary  awake  in  the  cot. 

n 

At  the  end  of  January  she  was  seven  years  old.  Some- 
thing was  bound  to  happen  when  you  were  seven. 

She  was  moved  out  of  Mamma's  room  to  sleep  by  herself 
on  the  top  floor  in  the  night  nursery.  And  the  day  nursery 
was  turned  into  the  boys'  schoolroom. 

When  you  were  little  and  slept  in  the  cot  behind  the  cur- 


CHILDHOOD  46 

tain  Mamma  would  sometimes  come  and  read  you  to  sleep 
with  the  bits  you  wanted:  "  The  Lord  is  my  Shepherd,"  and 
"  Or  ever  the  silver  cord  be  loosed  or  the  golden  bowl  be 
broken,  or  the  pitcher  be  broken  at  the  fountain  or  the  wheel 
broken  at  the  cistern,"  and  "  the  city  had  no  need  of  the 
sun,  neither  of  the  moon,  to  shine  in  it;  for  the  glory  of  God 
did  lighten  it,  and  the  Lamb  is  the  light  thereof." 

When  you  were  frightened  she  taught  you  to  say,  "  He 
that  dwelleth  in  the  secret  place  of  the  Most  High  shall  abide 
under  the  shadow  of  the  Almighty.  .  .  .  He  shall  cover 
thee  with  His  feathers  and  under  His  wings  slialt  thou  trust. 
.  .  .  Thou  shalt  not  be  afraid  for  the  terror  by  night."  And 
you  were  allowed  to  have  a  night-light. 

Now  it  was  all  different.  You  went  to  bed  half  an  hour 
later,  while  Mamma  was  dressing  for  dinner,  and  when  she 
came  to  tuck  you  up  the  bell  rang  and  she  had  to  run  down- 
stairs, quick,  so  as  not  to  keep  Papa  waiting.  You  hung 
on  to  her  neck  and  untucked  yourself,  and  she  always  got 
away  before  you  could  kiss  her  seven  times.  And  there  was 
no  night-light.  You  had  to  read  the  Bible  in  the  morning, 
and  it  always  had  to  be  the  bits  Mamma  wanted,  out  of 
Genesis  and  the  Gospel  of  St.  John. 

You  had  to  learn  about  the  one  God  and  the  three  Per- 
sons. The  one  God  was  the  nice,  clever,  happy  God  who 
made  Mamma  and  Mark  and  Jenny  and  the  sun  and  Sarah 
and  the  kittens.    He  was  the  God  you  really  believed  in. 

At  night  when  3'ou  lay  on  your  back  in  the  dark  you 
thought  about  being  born  and  about  arithmetic  and  God. 
The  sacred  number  three  went  into  eighteen  sixty-nine  and 
didn't  come  out  again;  so  did  seven.  She  liked  numbers 
that  fitted  like  that  with  no  loose  ends  left  over.  Mr.  Sip- 
pett  said  there  were  things  you  could  do  with  the  loose  ends 
of  numbers  to  make  them  fit.  That  was  fractions.  Sup- 
posing there  was  somewhere  in  the  world  a  number  that 
simply  wouldn't  fit?  Mr.  Sippett  said  there  was  no  such 
number.  But  queer  things  happened.  You  were  seven 
years  old,  yet  you  had  had  eight  birthdays.  There  was  the 
day  you  were  bom,  January  the  twenty- fourth,  eighteen 
sLxty-three,  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morning.  When  you  were 
born  you  weren't  any  age  at  all,  not  a  mmute  old,  not  a 


46  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

second,  not  half  a  second.  But  there  was  eighteen  sixty-two 
and  there  was  January  the  twenty-third  and  the  minute 
just  before  you  were  born.  You  couldn't  really  tell  when 
the  twenty -third  ended  and  the  twenty-fourth  began;  be- 
cause when  you  counted  sixty  minutes  for  the  hour  and  sixty 
seconds  for  the  minute,  there  was  still  the  half  second  and 
the  half  of  that,  and  so  on  for  ever  and  ever. 

You  couldn't  tell  when  you  were  really  born.  And  nobody 
could  tell  you  what  being  born  was.  Perhaps  nobody  knew, 
Jenny  said  being  born  was  just  being  born.  Sarah's  grand- 
children were  born  in  the  garden  under  the  wall  where  the 
jasmine  grew.  Roddy  shouted  at  the  back  door,  and  when 
you  ran  to  look  he  stretched  out  his  arms  across  the  doorway 
and  wouldn't  let  you  through.  Roddy  was  excited  and 
frightened ;  and  Mamma  said  he  had  been  very  good  because 
he  stood  across  the  door. 

There  was  being  born  and  there  was  dying.  If  you  died 
this  minute  there  would  be  the  minute  after.  Then,  if  you 
were  good,  your  soul  was  in  Heaven  and  your  body  was  cold 
and  stiff  like  Miss  Thompson's  mother.  And  there  was 
Lazarus.  "  He  hath  been  in  the  grave  four  days  and  by  this 
time  he  stinketh."  That  was  dreadfully  frightening;  but 
they  had  to  say  it  to  show  that  Lazarus  was  really  dead. 
That  was  how  you  could  tell. 

"  '  Lord,  if  thou  hadst  been  here  our  brother  had  not 
died.' " 

That  was  beautiful.  When  you  thought  of  it  you  wanted 
to  cry. 

Supposing  Mamma  died?  Supposing  Mark  died?  Or 
Dank  or  Roddy?     Or  even  Uncle  Victor?     Even  Papa? 

They  couldn't.     Jesus  wouldn't  let  them. 

When  you  were  frightened  in  the  big  dark  room  you 
thought  about  God  and  Jesus  and  the  Holy  Ghost.  They 
didn't  leave  you  alone  a  single  minute.  God  and  Jesus  stood 
beside  the  bed,  and  Jesus  kept  God  in  a  good  temper,  and 
the  Holy  Ghost  flew  about  the  room  and  perched  on  the  top 
of  the  linen  cupboard,  and  bowed  and  bowed,  and  said, 
"  Rook-ke-heroo-oo !     Rook-ke-keroo-oo !  " 

And  there  was  the  parroquet. 

Mark  had  given  her  the  stuffed  parroquet  on  her  birth- 


CHILDHOOD  47 

day,  and  Mamma  had  given  her  the  Bible  and  the  two  grey- 
china  vases  to  make  up,  with  a  bird  painted  on  each.  A 
black  bird  with  a  red  beak  and  red  legs.  She  had  set  them 
up  on  the  chimney-piece  under  the  picture  of  the  Holy 
Family.  She  put  the  Bible  in  the  middle  and  the  parroquet 
on  the  top  of  the  Bible  and  the  vases  one  on  each  side. 

She  worshipped  them,  because  of  Mamma  and  Mark. 

She  said  to  herself:  "God  won't  like  that,  but  I  can't 
help  it.  The  kind,  clever  God  won't  mind  a  bit.  He's  much 
too  busy  making  things.  And  it's  not  as  if  they  were  graven 
images." 

in 

Jenny  had  taken  her  for  a  walk  to  Ilford  and  they  were 
going  home  to  the  house  in  Ley  Street. 

There  were  only  two  walks  that  Jenny  liked  to  go:  down 
Ley  Street  to  Barkingside  where  the  little  shops  were;  and 
up  Ley  Street  to  Ilford  and  Mr.  Spall's,  the  cobbler's.  She 
liked  Ilford  best  because  of  Mr.  Spall.  She  carried  your 
boots  to  Mr.  Spall  just  as  they  were  getting  comfortable; 
she  was  always  ferreting  in  Sarah's  cupboard  for  a  pair  to 
take  to  him.  Mr.  Spall  was  very  tall  and  lean;  he  had  thick 
black  eyebrows  rumpled  up  the  wrong  way  and  a  long  nose 
with  a  red  knob  at  the  end  of  it.  A  dirty  grey  beard  hung 
under  his  chin,  and  his  long,  shaved  lips  curled  over  in  a 
disagreeable  way  when  he  smiled  at  you. 

When  Jenny  and  Catty  went  to  sing  the  New  Year  in 
at  the  Wesleyan  Chapel  he  brought  them  home.  Jenny 
liked  him  because  his  wife  was  dead,  and  because  he  was  a 
Wesleyan  and  Deputy  Grand  Master  of  the  Independent 
Order  of  Good  Templars.  You  had  to  shake  hands  with  him 
to  say  good-bye.  He  always  said  the  same  thing:  "  Next 
time  you  come,  little  Missy,  I'll  show  you  the  Deputy 
Regalia."    But  he  never  did. 

To-day  Jenny  had  made  her  stand  outside  in  the  shop, 
among  the  old  boots  and  the  sheets  of  leather,  while  she  and 
Mr.  Spall  went  into  the  back  parlour  to  talk  about  Jesus. 
The  shop  smelt  of  leather  and  feet  and  onions  and  of  Mr. 
Spall,  so  that  she  was  glad  when  they  got  out  again.     She 


48  "MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

wondered  how  Jenny  could  bear  to  sit  in  the  back  parlour 
with  Mr.  Spall. 

Coming  home  at  first  she  had  to  keep  close  by  Jenny's 
side.  Jenny  was  tired  and  went  slowly ;  but  by  taking  high 
prancing  and  dancing  steps  she  could  pretend  that  they  were 
rushing  along;  and  once  they  had  turned  the  crook  of  Ley 
Street  she  ran  on  a  little  way  in  front  of  Jenny.  Then, 
walking  very  fast  and  never  looking  back,  she  pretended 
that  she  had  gone  out  by  herself. 

When  she  had  passed  the  row  of  elms  and  the  farm,  and 
the  small  brown  brick  cottages  fenced  off  with  putty- 
coloured  palings,  she  came  to  the  low  ditches  and  the  flat 
fields  on  either  side  and  saw  on  her  left  the  bare,  brown 
brick,  pointed  end  of  the  tall  house.  It  was  called  Five 
Elms. 

Further  down  the  road  the  green  and  gold  sign  of  The 
Green  Man  and  the  scarlet  and  gold  sign  of  the  Horns 
Tavern  hung  high  on  white  standards  set  up  in  the  road. 
Further  down  still,  where  Ley  Street  swerved  slightly  to- 
wards Barkingside,  three  tall  poplars  stood  in  the  slant  of 
the  swerve. 

A  queer  white  light  everywhere,  like  water  thin  and 
clear.  Wide  fields,  flat  and  still,  like  water,  flooded  with 
the  thin,  clear  light;  grey  earth,  shot  delicately  with  green 
blades,  shimmering.  Ley  Street,  a  grey  road,  whitening 
suddenly  where  it  crossed  open  country,  a  hard  causeway 
thrown  over  the  flood.  The  high  trees,  the  small,  scat- 
tered cottages,  the  two  taverns,  the  one  tall  house  had  the 
look  of  standing  up  in  water. 

She  saw  the  queer  white  light  for  the  first  time  and  drew 
in  her  breath  with  a  sharp  check.  She  knew  that  the  fields 
were  beautiful. 

She  saw  Five  Elms  for  the  first  time:  the  long  line  of 
its  old  red-tiled  roof,  its  flat  brown  face;  the  three  rows  of 
narrow  windows,  four  at  the  bottom,  with  the  front  door  at 
the  end  of  the  row,  five  at  the  top,  five  in  the  middle ;  their 
red  brick  eye-brows;  their  black  glassy  stare  between  the 
drawn-back  curtains.  She  noticed  how  high  and  big  the 
house  looked  on  its  slender  plot  of  grass  behind  the  brick 
wall  that  held  up  the  low  white-painted  iron  railing. 


CHILDHOOD  49 

A  tall  iron  gate  between  bro^vTi  brick  pillars,  topped  by- 
stone  balls.  A  flagged  path  to  the  front  door.  Crocuses, 
yellow,  white,  white  and  purple,  growing  in  the  border  of 
the  grass  plot.     She  saw  them  for  the  first  time. 

The  front  door  stood  open.     She  went  in. 

The  drawing-room  at  the  back  was  full  of  the  queer  white 
light.  Things  stood  out  in  it,  sharp  and  suddenly  strange, 
like  the  trees  and  houses  in  the  light  outside:  the  wine-red 
satin  stripes  in  the  grey  damask  curtains  at  the  three 
windows;  the  rings  of  wine-red  roses  on  the  grey  carpet; 
the  tarnished  pattern  on  the  grey  wall-paper;  the  furniture 
shining  like  dark  wine;  the  fluted  emerald  green  silk  in  the 
panel  of  the  piano  and  the  hanging  bag  of  the  work-table; 
the  small  wine-red  flowers  on  the  pale  green  chintz;  the 
green  Chinese  bowls  in  the  rosewood  cabinet;  the  blue  and 
red  parrot  on  the  chair. 

Her  mother  sat  at  the  far  end  of  the  room.  She  was 
sorting  beads  into  trays  in  a  box  lined  with  sandal  wood. 

Mary  stood  at  the  doorway  looking  in,  swinging  her  hat 
in  her  hand.  Suddenly,  without  any  reason,  she  was  so 
happy  that  she  could  hardly  bear  it. 

Mamma  looked  up.  She  said,  "  What  are  you  doing 
standing  there?  " 

She  ran  to  her  and  hid  her  face  in  her  lap.  She  caught 
Mamma's  hands  and  kissed  them.  They  smelt  of  sandal 
wood.  They  moved  over  her  hair  with  slight  quick  strokes 
that  didn't  stay,  that  didn't  care. 

Mamma  said,  "  There.    That'll  do.    That'll  do." 

She  climbed  up  on  a  chair  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 
She  could  see  Mamma's  small  beautiful  nose  bending  over 
the  tray  of  beads,  and  her  bright  eyes  that  slid  slantwise  to 
look  at  her.  And  under  the  window  she  saw  the  brown 
twigs  of  the  lilac  bush  tipped  with  green. 

Her  happiness  was  sharp  and  still  like  the  white  light. 

Mamma  said,  "  What  did  you  see  when  you  were  out  with 
Jenny  to-day?  " 

"  Nothing.'" 

"  Nothing?    And  what  are  you  looking  at?  " 

"  Nothing,  Mamma." 

"  Then  go  upstairs  and  take  your  things  off.    Quick!  " 


50  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

She  went  very  slowly,  holding  herself  with  care,  lest  she 
should  jar  her  happiness  and  spill  it. 

One  of  the  windows  of  her  room  was  open.  She  stood 
a  little  while  looking  out. 

Beyond  the  rose-red  wall  of  the  garden  she  saw  the  flat 
furrowed  field,  stripes  of  grey  earth  and  vivid  green.  In 
the  middle  of  the  field  the  five  elms  in  a  row,  high  and 
slender ;  four  standing  close  together,  one  apart.  Each  held 
up  a  small  rounded  top,  fine  as  a  tuft  of  feathers. 

On  her  left  towards  Ilford,  a  very  long  row  of  high  elms 
screened  off  the  bare  fiats  from  the  village.  Where  it  ended 
she  saw  Drake's  Farm;  black  timbered  barns  and  sallow 
haystacks  beside  a  clump  of  trees.  Behind  the  five  elms,  on 
the  edge  of  the  earth,  a  flying  line  of  trees  set  wide  apart, 
small,  thin  trees,  flying  away  low  down  under  the  sky. 

She  looked  and  looked.  Her  happiness  mixed  itself  up 
with  the  queer  light  and  with  the  flat  fields  and  the  tall, 
bare  trees. 

She  turned  from  the  window  and  saw  the  vases  that 
Mamma  had  given  her  standing  on  the  chimney-piece.  The 
black  birds  with  red  beaks  and  red  legs  looked  at  her.  She 
threw  herself  on  the  bed  and  pressed  her  face  into  the  pillow 
and  cried  "  Mamma!   Mamma!  " 

IV 

Passion  Week.  It  gave  you  an  awful  feeling  of  some- 
thing going  to  happen. 

In  the  long  narrow  dining-room  the  sunlight  through  the 
three  windows  made  a  strange  and  solemn  blue  colour  in 
the  dark  curtains.  Mamma  sat  up  at  the  mahogany  table, 
looking  sad  and  serious,  with  the  Prayer  Book  open  before 
her  at  the  Litany.  When  you  went  in  you  knew  that  you 
would  have  to  read  about  the  Crucifixion.  Nothing  could 
save  you. 

Still  you  did  find  out  things  about  God.  In  the  Epistle 
it  said:  "  '  Wherefore  art  thou  red  in  thine  apparel  and  thy 
garments  like  him  that  treadeth  the  wine-fat?  I  have  trod- 
den the  wine-press  alone,  and  of  the  people  there  was  none 
with  me:  for  I  will  tread  them  in  my  anger,  and  trample 


CHILDHOOD  61 

them  in  my  fury,  and  their  blood  shall  be  sprinkled  upon 
my  garments,  and  I  will  stain  all  my  raiment.'  " 

The  Passion  meant  that  God  had  flown  into  another 
temper  and  that  Jesus  was  crucified  to  make  him  good  again. 
Mark  said  you  mustn't  say  that  to  Mamma ;  but  he  owned 
that  it  looked  like  it.  Anyhow  it  was  easier  to  think  of  it 
that  way  than  to  think  that  God  sent  Jesus  down  to  be 
crucified  because  you  were  naughty. 

There  were  no  verses  in  the  Prayer-Book  Bible,  only  long 
grey  slabs  like  tombstones.  You  kept  on  looking  for  the 
last  tombstone.  When  you  came  to  the  one  with  the  big 
black  letters,  THE  KING  OF  THE  JEWS,  you  knew  that 
it  would  soon  be  over. 

"  '  They  clothed  him  with  purple,  and  platted  a  crown  of 
thorns  and  put  it  on  his  head.  .  .  .'"  She  read  obediently: 
"  '  And  when  the  sixth  hour  was  come  .  .  .  and  when  the 
sixth  hour  w^as  come  there  was  darkness  over  the  whole  land 
until  the  ninth  hour.  And  at  the  ninth  hour  Jesus  cried  out 
with  a  loud  voice.  .  .  .  And  Jesus  cried  with  a  loud  voice 
.  .  .  with  a  loud  voice,  and  gave  up  the  ghost.'  " 

Mamma  was  saying  that  the  least  you  could  do  was  to 
pay  attention.  But  you  couldn't  pay  attention  every  time. 
The  first  time  it  was  beautiful  and  terrible;  but  after  many 
times  the  beauty  went  and  you  were  only  frightened. 
When  she  tried  to  think  about  the  crown  of  thorns  she 
thought  of  the  new  hat  Catty  had  bought  for  Easter  Sunday 
and  what  Mr.  Spall  did  when  he  ate  the  parsnips. 

Through  the  barred  windows  of  the  basement  she  could 
hear  Catty  singing  in  the  pantry: 

"  '  I  am  so  glad  that  Jesus  loves  me, 
Jesus  loves  me, 
Jesus  loves  me.  .  .  .' " 

Catty  was  happy  when  she  sang  and  danced  round  and 
round  with  the  dish-cloth.  And  Jenny  and  Mr.  Spall  w^ere 
happy  when  they  talked  about  Jesus.  But  Mamma  was  not 
happy.  She  had  had  to  read  the  Morning  Prayer  and  the 
Psalms  and  the  Lessons  and  the  Litany  to  herself  every 
morning;  and  by  Thursday  she  was  tired  and  cross. 

Passion  Week  gave  you  an  awful  feeling. 


52  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Good  Friday  would  be  the  worst.  It  was  the  real  day 
that  Jesus  died.  There  would  be  the  sixth  hour  and  the 
ninth  hour.     Perhaps  there  would  be  a  darkness. 

But  when  Good  Friday  came  you  found  a  smoking  hot- 
cross  bun  on  everybody's  plate  at  breakfast,  tasting  of  spice 
and  butter.  And  you  went  to  Aldborough  Hatch  for  Serv- 
ice. She  thought:  "  If  the  darkness  does  come  it  won't  be 
so  bad  to  bear  at  Aldborough  Hatch."  She  liked  the  new 
white-washed  church  with  the  clear  windows,  where  you 
could  stand  on  the  hassock  and  look  out  at  the  green  hill 
framed  in  the  white  arch.     That  was  Chigwell. 

"  '  There  is  a  green  hill  far  a-a-way 
Without  a  city  wall  —  '  " 

The  green  hill  hadn't  got  any  city  wall.  Epping  Forest 
and  Hainault  Forest  were  there.  You  could  think  of  them, 
or  you  could  look  at  Mr.  Propart's  nice  clean-shaved  face 
while  he  read  about  the  Crucifixion  and  preached  about 
God's  mercy  and  his  justice.  He  did  it  all  in  a  soothing, 
inattentive  voice;  and  when  he  had  finished  he  went  quick 
into  the  vestry  as  if  he  were  glad  it  was  all  over.  And 
when  you  met  him  at  the  gate  he  didn't  look  as  if  Good 
Friday  mattered  very  much. 

In  the  afternoon  she  forgot  all  about  the  sixth  hour  and 
the  ninth  hour.  Just  as  she  was  going  to  think  about  them 
Mark  and  Dank  put  her  in  the  dirty  clothes-basket  and 
rolled  her  down  the  back  stairs  to  make  her  happy.  They 
shut  themselves  up  in  the  pantry  till  she  had  stopped  laugh- 
ing, and  when  Catty  opened  the  door  the  clock  struck  and 
Mark  said  that  was  the  ninth  hour. 

It  was  all  over.  And  nothing  had  happened.  Nothing 
at  all. 

Only,  when  you  thought  of  what  had  been  done  to  Jesus, 
it  didn't  seem  right,  somehow,  to  have  eaten  the  hot-cross 
buns. 

V 

Grandmamma  and  Grandpapa  Olivier  were  buried  in  the 
City  of  London  Cemetery.  A  long  time  ago,  so  long  that 
even  Mark  couldn't  remember  it,  Uncle  Victor  had  brought 


CHILDHOOD  63 

Grandmamma  in  a  cofiin  all  the  way  from  Liverpool  to 
London  in  the  train. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  Mamma  had  to  put  flowers  on  the 
grave  for  Easter  Sunday,  because  of  Uncle  Victor  and  Aunt 
Lavvy.  She  took  Roddy  and  Mary  with  her.  They  drove 
in  Mr.  Parish's  wagonette,  and  called  for  Aunt  Lavvy  at 
Uncle  Victor's  tall  white  house  at  the  bottom  of  Ilford  High 
Street.  Aunt  Lavvy  was  on  the  steps,  waiting  for  them, 
holding  a  big  cross  of  white  flowers.  You  could  see  Aunt 
Charlotte's  face  at  the  dining-room  window  looking  out  over 
the  top  of  the  brown  wire  blind.  She  had  her  hat  on,  as  if 
she  had  expected  to  be  taken  too.  Her  eyes  were  sharp 
and  angry,  and  Uncle  Victor  stood  behind  her  with  his 
hand  on  her  shoulder. 

Aunt  Lavvy  gave  Mary  the  flower  cross  and  climbed 
stiffly  into  the  wagonette.  Mary  felt  grown  up  and  impor- 
tant holding  the  big  cross  on  her  knee.  The  white  flowers 
gave  out  a  thick,  sweet  smell. 

As  they  drove  away  she  kept  on  thinking  about  Aunt 
Charlotte,  and  about  Uncle  Victor  bringing  Grandmamma 
in  a  coffin  in  the  train.  It  was  very,  very  brave  of  him. 
She  was  sorry  for  Aunt  Charlotte.  Aunt  Charlotte  had 
wanted  to  go  to  the  cemetery  and  they  hadn't  let  her  go. 
Perhaps  she  was  still  looking  over  the  blind,  sharp  and 
angry  because  they  wouldn't  let  her  go. 

Aunt  Lav\^  said,  ''  We  couldn't  take  Charlotte.  It  ex- 
cited her  too  much  last  time."  As  if  she  knew  what  you 
were  thinking. 

The  wagonette  stopped  by  the  railway-crossing  at  Manor 
Park,  and  they  got  out.  Mamma  told  Mr.  Parish  to  drive 
round  to  the  Leytonstone  side  and  wait  for  them  there  at 
the  big  gates.  They  wanted  to  walk  through  the  cemetery 
and  see  what  was  to  be  seen. 

Beyond  the  railway-crossing  a  muddy  lane  went  along  a 
field  of  coarse  grass  under  a  hedge  of  thorns  and  ended  at  a 
paling.  Roddy  whispered  excitedly  that  they  were  in  Wan- 
stead  Flats,  the  hedge  shut  off  the  cemetery  from  the  flats ; 
through  thin  places  in  the  thorn  bushes  you  could  see  tomb- 
stones, very  white  tombstones  against  very  dark  trees. 
There  was  a  black  wooden  door  in  the  hedge  for  you  to  go  in 


54  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

by.  The  lane  and  the  thorn  bushes  and  the  black  door 
reminded  Mary  of  something  she  had  seen  before  some- 
where.    Something  frightening. 

When  they  got  through  the  black  door  there  were  no 
tombstones.  What  showed  through  the  hedge  were  the  tops 
of  high  white  pillars  standing  up  among  trees  a  long  way  off. 
They  had  come  into  a  dreadful,  bare,  clay-coloured  plain, 
furrowed  into  low  mounds,  as  if  a  plough  had  gone  criss- 
cross over  it. 

You  saw  nothing  but  mounds.  Some  of  them  were  made 
of  loose  earth ;  some  were  patched  over  with  rough  sods  that 
gaped  in  a  horrible  way.  Perhaps  if  you  looked  through 
the  cracks  you  would  see  down  into  the  grave  where  the 
coffin  was.  The  mounds  had  a  fresh,  raw  look,  as  if  all 
the  people  in  the  City  of  London  had  died  and  been  buried 
hurriedly  the  night  before.  And  there  were  no  stones  with 
names,  only  small,  flat  sticks  at  one  end  of  each  grave  to 
show  where  the  heads  were. 

Roddy  said,  "  We've  got  to  go  all  through  this  to  get  to 
the  other  side." 

They  could  see  Mamma  and  Aunt  Lavvy  a  long  way  on  in 
front  picking  their  way  gingerly  among  the  furrows.  If 
only  Mark  had  been  there  instead  of  Roddy.  Roddy  would 
keep  on  saying:  "  The  great  plague  of  London.  The  great 
plague  of  London,"  to  frighten  himself.  He  pointed  to  a 
heap  of  earth  and  said  it  was  the  first  plague  pit. 

In  the  middle  of  the  ploughed-up  plain  she  saw  people  in 
black  walking  slowly  and  crookedly  behind  a  coffin  that 
went  staggering  on  black  legs  under  a  black  pall.  She  tried 
not  to  look  at  them. 

When  she  looked  again  they  had  stopped  beside  a  heap 
that  Roddy  said  was  the  second  plague  pit.  Men  in  black 
crawled  out  from  under  the  coffin  as  they  put  it  down.  She 
could  see  the  bulk  of  it  flattened  out  under  the  black  pall. 
Against  the  raw,  ochreish  ground  the  figures  of  two  mutes 
stood  up,  black  and  distinct  in  their  high  hats  tied  in  the 
bunched  out,  streaming  weepers.  There  was  something 
filthy  and  frightful  about  the  figures  of  the  mutes.  And 
when  they  dragged  the  pall  from  the  coffim  there  was  some- 
thing filthy  and  frightful  about  the  action. 


CHILDHOOD  55 

"  Roddy,"  she  said,  "  I'm  frightened." 

Roddy  said,  "  So  am  I.  I  say,  supposing  we  went  back? 
By  ourselves.    Across  Wanstead  Flats."    He  was  excited. 

"  We  mustn't.    That  would  frighten  Mamma." 

"  Well,  then,  we'll  have  to  go  straight  through." 

They  went,  slowly,  between  the  rows  of  mounds,  along  a 
narrow  path  of  yellow  clay  that  squeaked  as  their  boots 
went  in  and  out.  Roddy  held  her  hand.  They  took  care 
not  to  tread  on  the  graves.  Every  step  brought  them  nearer 
to  the  funeral.  They  hadn't  pointed  it  out  to  each  other. 
They  had  pretended  it  wasn't  there.  Now  it  was  no  use 
pretending;  they  could  see  the  coffin. 

"Roddy  —  I  can't — I  can't  go  past  the  funeral." 

"  We've  got  to." 

He  looked  at  her  with  solemn  eyes,  wide  open  in  his 
beautiful  face.  He  was  not  really  frightened,  he  was  only 
trying  to  be  because  he  liked  it. 

They  went  on.  The  tight  feeling  under  her  waist  had 
gone;  her  body  felt  loose  and  light  as  if  it  didn't  belong  to 
her;  her  knees  were  soft  and  sank  under  her.  Suddenly  she 
let  go  Roddy's  hand.  She  stared  at  the  funeral,  paralysed 
with  fright. 

At  the  end  of  the  path  Mamma  and  Aunt  Lavvy  stood  and 
beckoned  to  them.  Aunt  Lavvy  was  coming  towards  them, 
carrying  her  white  flower  cross.  They  broke  into  a  stum- 
bling, nightmare  run. 

The  bare  clay  plain  stretched  on  past  the  place  where 
Mamma  and  Aunt  Lavvy  had  turned.  The  mounds  here 
were  big  and  high.  They  found  Mamma  and  Aunt  Lavvy 
standing  by  a  very  deep  and  narrow  pit.  A  man  was 
climbing  up  out  of  the  pit  on  a  ladder.  You  could  see  a 
pool  of  water  shining  far  down  at  the  bottom. 

Mamma  was  smiling  gently  and  kindly  at  the  man  and 
asking  him  why  the  grave  was  dug  so  deep.  He  said, 
"  Why,  because  this  'ere  lot  and  that  there  what  you've  come 
acrost  is  the  pauper  buryin'  ground.  We  shovel  'cm  in  five 
at  a  time  this  end." 

Roddy  said,  ''  Like  they  did  in  the  great  plague  of 
London." 

"  I  don't  know  about  no  plague.  But  there's  five  coffins 
in  each  of  these  here  graves,  piled  one  atop  of  the  other." 


56  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mamma  seemed  inclined  to  say  more  to  the  grave-digger; 
but  Aunt  Lavvy  frowned  and  shook  her  head  at  her,  and 
they  went  on  to  where  a  path  of  coarse  grass  divided  the 
pauper  burying  ground  from  the  rest.  Tliey  w^ere  now  quite 
horribly  near  the  funeral.  And  going  down  the  grass  path 
they  saw  another  that  came  towards  tliem ;  the  palled  coffin 
swaying  on  headless  shoulders.  They  turned  from  it  into  a 
furrow  between  the  huddled  mounds.  The  white  marble 
columns  gleamed  nearer  among  the  black  trees. 

They  crossed  a  smooth  gravel  walk  into  a  crowded  town 
of  dead  people.  Tombstones  as  far  as  you  could  see; 
upright  stones,  flat  slabs,  rounded  slabs,  slabs  like  coffins, 
stone  boxes  with  flat  tops,  broken  columns ;  pointed  pillars. 
Rows  of  tall  black  trees.  Here  and  there  a  single  tree  stick- 
ing up  stiffly  among  the  tombstones.  Very  little  trees  that 
were  queer  and  terrifying.  People  in  black  moving  about 
the  tombstones.  A  broad  road  and  a  grey  chapel  with 
pointed  gables.  Under  a  black  tree  a  square  plot  enclosed 
by  iron  railings. 

Grandmamma  and  Grandpapa  Olivier  were  buried  in  one 
half  of  the  plot  under  a  white  marble  slab.  In  the  other 
half,  on  the  bare  grass,  a  white  marble  curb  marked  out  a 
place  for  another  grave. 

Roddy  said,  "  Who's  buried  there?  " 

Mamma  said,  *'  Nobody.    Yet.    That's  for  —  " 

Mary  saw  Aunt  Lavvy  frown  again  and  put  her  finger 
to  her  mouth. 

She  said,  "  Who?  For  who?  "  An  appalling  curiosity 
and  fear  possessed  her.  And  when  Aunt  Lawy  took  her 
hand  she  knew  that  the  empty  place  was  marked  out  for 
Mamma  and  Papa. 

Outside  the  cemetery  gates,  in  the  white  road,  the  black 
funeral  horses  tossed  their  heads  and  neighed,  and  the  black 
plumes  quivered  on  the  hearses.  In  the  wagonette  she  sat 
close  beside  Aunt  Lavvy,  with  Aunt  Lavvy's  shawl  over  her 
eyes. 

She  wondered  how  she  knew  that  you  were  frightened 
when  Mamma  didn't.  Mamma  couldn't,  because  she  was 
brave.     She  wasn't  afraid  of  the  funeral. 

When  Roddy  said,  "  She  oughtn't  to  have  taken  us,  she 


CHILDHOOD  57 

ought  to  have  known  it  would  frighten  us,"  Mark  was 
angry  with  him.  He  said,  "  She  thought  you'd  like  it,  you 
little  beast.    Because  of  the  wagonette." 

Darling  Mamma.  She  had  taken  them  because  she 
thought  they  would  like  it.  Because  of  the  wagonette. 
Because  she  was  brave,  like  Mark. 

VI 

Dead  people  really  did  rise.  Supposing  all  the  dead 
people  in  the  City  of  London  Cemetery  rose  and  came  out 
of  their  graves  and  went  about  the  city?  Supposing  they 
walked  out  as  far  as  Ilford?  Crowds  and  crowds  of  them, 
in  white  sheets?     Supposing  they  got  into  the  garden? 

"  Please,  God,  keep  me  from  thinking  about  the  Resur- 
rection. Please  God,  keep  me  from  dreaming  about  coffins 
and  funerals  and  ghosts  and  skeletons  and  corpses."  She 
said  it  last,  after  the  blessings,  so  that  God  couldn't  forget. 
But  it  was  no  use. 

If  you  said  texts:  "Thou  shalt  not  be  afraid  for  the 
terror  by  night."  "  Yea,  though  I  walk  through  the  City  of 
London  Cemetery."     It  was  no  use. 

"  The  trumpet  shall  sound  and  the  dead  shall  arise  .  .  . 
Incorruptible." 

That  was  beautiful.  Like  a  bright  light  shining.  But 
you  couldn't  think  about  it  long  enough.  And  the  dreams 
went  on  just  the  same:  the  dream  of  the  ghost  in  the  passage, 
the  dream  of  the  black  coffin  coming  round  the  turn  of  the 
staircase  and  squeezing  you  against  the  banister ;  the  dream 
of  the  corpse  that  came  to  your  bed.  She  could  see  the 
round  back  and  the  curled  arms  under  the  white  sheet. 

The  dreams  woke  her  with  a  sort  of  burst.  Her  heart 
was  jumping  about  and  thumping;  her  face  and  hair  were 
wet  with  water  that  came  out  of  her  skin. 

The  grey  light  in  the  passage  was  like  the  ghost-light  of 
the  dreams. 

Gas  light  was  a  good  light;  but  when  you  turned  it  on 
Jenny  came  up  and  put  it  out  again.  She  said,  "  Goodness 
knows  when  you'll  get  to  sleep  with  that  light  flaring." 

There  was  never  anybody  about  at  bedtime.     Jermy  was 


58  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

dishing  up  the  dinner.  Harriet  was  waiting.  Catty  only 
ran  up  for  a  minute  to  undo  the  hooks  and  brush  your  hair. 

When  Mamma  sent  her  to  bed  she  came  creeping  back 
into  the  dining-room.  Everybody  was  eating  dinner.  She 
sickened  with  fright  in  the  steam  and  smell  of  dinner.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  Mamma  and  whimpered,  and 
Mamma  said  in  her  soft  voice,  "  Big  girls  don't  cry  because 
it's  bed-time.     Only  silly  baby  girls  are  afraid  of  ghosts." 

Mamma  wasn't  afraid. 

When  she  cried  Mark  left  his  dinner  and  carried  her 
upstairs,  past  the  place  where  the  ghost  was,  and  stayed 
with  her  till  Catty  came. 

VII 


"Minx!     Minx!     Minx!" 

Mark  had  come  in  from  the  garden  with  Mamma.  He 
was  calling  to  Mary.  Minx  was  the  name  he  had  given 
her.  Minx  was  a  pretty  name  and  she  loved  it  because  he 
had  given  it  her.  Whenever  she  heard  him  call  she  left 
what  she  was  doing  and  ran  to  him. 

Papa  came  out  of  the  library  with  Boag's  Dictionary  open 
in  his  hand.  "  '  Minx:  A  pert,  wanton  girl.  A  she-puppy.' 
Do  you  hear  that,  Caroline?  He  calls  his  sister  a  wanton 
she-puppy."    But  Mamma  had  gone  back  into  the  garden. 

Mark  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs  and  Mary  stood  at 
the  turn.  She  had  one  hand  on  the  rail  of  the  banister,  the 
other  pressed  hard  against  the  wall.  She  leaned  forward  on 
tiptoe,  measuring  her  distance.  When  she  looked  at  the 
stairs  they  fell  from  under  her  in  a  grey  dizziness,  so  that 
Mark  looked  very  far  away. 

They  waited  till  Papa  had  gone  back  into  the  library  — 
Mark  held  out  his  arms. 

"  Jump,  Minky !     Jump!  " 

She  let  go  the  rail  and  drew  herself  up.  A  delicious  thrill 
of  danger  went  through  her  and  out  at  her  fingers.  She 
flung  herself  into  space  and  Mark  caught  her.  His  body 
felt  hard  and  strong  as  it  received  her.  They  did  it  again 
and  again. 


CHILDHOOD  69 

That  was  the  "  faith-jump."  You  knew  that  you  would 
be  killed  if  Mark  didn't  catch  you,  but  you  had  faith  that 
he  would  catch  you;  and  he  always  did. 

Mark  and  Dan  were  going  to  school  at  Chelmsted  on  the 
thirteenth  of  September,  and  it  was  the  last  week  in  August 
now.  Mark  and  Mamma  were  always  looking  for  each 
other.  Mamma  would  come  running  up  to  the  schoolroom 
and  say,  "  Where's  Mark?  Tell  Mark  I  want  him  ";  and 
Mark  would  go  into  the  garden  and  say,  "  Where's  Mamma? 
I  want  her."  And  Mamma  would  put  away  her  trowel  and 
gardening  gloves  and  go  walks  with  him  which  she  hated; 
and  Mark  would  leave  Napoleon  Buonaparte  and  the  plan 
of  the  Battle  of  Austerlitz  to  dig  in  the  garden  (and  he 
loathed  digging)  with  Mamma. 

This  afternoon  he  had  called  to  Mary  to  come  out  brook- 
jumping.  Mark  could  jump  all  the  brooks  in  the  fields  be- 
tween Ilford  and  Barkingside,  and  in  the  plantations  beyond 
Drake's  Farm;  he  could  jump  the  Pool  of  Siloam  where  the 
water  from  the  plantations  runs  into  the  lake  below 
Vinings.  Where  there  was  no  place  for  a  little  girl  of  seven 
to  cross  he  carried  her  in  his  arms  and  jumped.  He  would 
stand  outside  in  the  lane  and  put  his  hands  on  the  wall  and 
turn  heels  over  head  into  the  garden. 

She  said  to  herself:  "  In  six  years  and  five  months  I  shall 
be  fourteen.  I  shall  jump  the  Pool  of  Siloam  and  come 
into  the  garden  head  over  heels."  And  Mamma  called  her 
a  little  humbug  when  she  said  she  was  afraid  to  go  for  a 
walk  with  Jenny  lest  a  funeral  should  be  coming  along  the 
road. 

II 

The  five  elm  trees  held  up  their  skirts  above  the  high 
corn.  The  flat  surface  of  the  corn-tops  was  still.  Hot 
glassy  air  quivered  like  a  thin  steam  over  the  brimming  field. 

The  glazed  yellow  walls  of  the  old  nursery  gave  out  a 
strong  light  and  heat.  The  air  indoors  was  dry  and  smelt 
dusty  like  the  hot,  crackling  air  above  the  com.  The  chil- 
dren had  come  in  from  their  play  in  the  fields;  they  leaned 
out  of  the  windows  and  talked  about  what  they  were  going 
to  be. 


60  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mary  said,  "  I  shall  paint  pictures  and  play  the  piano  and 
ride  in  a  circus.  I  shall  go  out  to  the  countries  where  the 
sand  is  and  tame  zebras ;  and  I  shall  marry  Mark  and  have 
thirteen  children  with  blue  eyes  like  Meta." 

Roddy  was  going  to  be  the  captain  of  a  cruiser.  Dan 
was  going  to  Texas,  or  some  place  where  Papa  couldn't  get 
at  him,  to  farm.  Mark  was  going  to  be  a  soldier  like  Mar- 
shal McMahon. 

It  was  Grandpapa  and  Grandmamma's  fault  that  he  was 
not  a  soldier  now. 

"  If,"  he  said,  ''  they'd  let  Papa  marry  Mamma  when  he 
wanted  to,  I  might  have  been  born  in  eighteen  fifty-two. 
I'd  be  eighteen  by  this  time.  I  should  have  gone  into  the 
French  Army  and  I  should  have  been  with  McMahon  at 
Sedan  now." 

"  You  might  have  been  killed,"  Mary  said. 

"  That  wouldn't  have  mattered  a  bit.  I  should  have  been 
at  Sedan.  Nothing  matters,  Minky,  as  long  as  you  get 
what  you  want." 

"  If  you  were  killed  Mamma  and  me  would  die,  too,  the 
same  minute.  Papa  would  be  sorrj-,  then;  but  not  enough 
to  kill  him,  so  that  we  should  go  to  heaven  together  without 
him  and  be  happy." 

"  Mamma  wouldn't  be  happy  without  him.  We  couldn't 
shut  him  out." 

"  No,"  Mary  said;  "  but  we  could  pray  to  God  not  to  let 
him  come  up  too  soon." 

in 

Sedan  —  Sedan  —  Sedan. 

Papa  came  out  into  the  garden  where  Mamma  was  pulling 
weeds  out  of  the  hot  dry  soil.  He  flapped  the  newspaper 
and  read  about  the  Battle  of  Sedan.  Mamma  left  off 
pulling  weeds  out  and  listened. 

Mark  had  stuck  the  picture  of  Marshal  McMahon  over 
the  schoolroom  chimney-piece.  Papa  had  pinned  the  war- 
map  to  the  library  door.  Mark  was  restless.  He  kept  on 
going  into  the  library  to  look  at  the  war-map  and  Papa 
kept  on  turning  him  out  again.     He  was  in  a  sort  of  mys- 


CHILDHOOD  61 

terious  disgrace  because  of  Sedan.  Roddy  was  excited 
about  Sedan.  Dan  followed  Mark  as  he  went  in  and  out; 
he  was  furious  with  Papa  because  of  Mark. 

Mamma  had  been  a  long  time  in  the  library  talking  to 
Papa.  They  sent  for  Mark  just  before  dinner-time.  When 
Mary  ran  in  to  say  good-night  she  found  him  there. 

Mark  was  saying,  "  You  needn't  think  I  want  your  beastly 
money.    I  shall  enlist." 

Mamma  said,  "  If  he  enlists,  Emilius,  it'll  kill  me." 

And  Papa,  "  You  hear  what  your  mother  says,  sir.  Isn't 
that  enough  for  you?  " 

Mark  loved  Mamma;  but  he  was  not  going  to  do  what 
she  wanted.  He  was  going  to  do  something  that  would  kill 
her. 

IV 

Papa  walked  in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  like 
the  Lord  God,  And  he  was  always  alone.  When  you 
thought  of  him  you  thought  of  Jehovah. 

There  was  something  funny  about  other  people's  fathers. 
Mr.  Manisty,  of  Vinings,  who  rode  along  Ley  Street  with 
his  two  tall,  thin  sons,  as  if  he  were  actually  proud  of 
them;  Mr.  Batty,  the  Vicar  of  Barkingside,  who  called  his 
daughter  Isabel  his  "pretty  one";  Mr.  Farmer,  the  curate 
of  St.  Mary's  Chapel,  who  walked  up  and  down  the  room 
all  night  with  the  baby;  and  Mr.  Propart,  who  went  about 
the  public  roads  with  Humphrey  and  Arthur  positively 
hanging  on  him.  Dan  said  Humphrey  and  Arthur  were 
tame  and  domestic  because  they  were  always  going  about 
with  Mr.  Propart  and  talking  to  him  as  if  they  liked  it. 
Mark  had  once  seen  Mr.  Propart  trying  to  jump  a  ditch  on 
the  Aldborough  Road.  It  was  ridiculous.  Humphrey  and 
Arthur  had  to  grab  him  by  the  arms  and  pull  him  over. 
Mary  was  sorry  for  the  Propart  boys  because  they  hadn't 
got  a  mother  who  was  sweet  and  pretty  like  Mamma  and 
a  father  called  Emilius  Olivier.  Emilius  couldn't  jump 
ditches  any  more  than  Mr.  Propart;  but  then  he  knew  he 
couldn't,  and  as  Mark  said,  he  had  the  jolly  good  sense 
not  to  try.    You  couldn't  be  Jehovah  and  jump  ditches. 

Emilius  Olivier  was  everything  a  father  ought  to  be. 


62  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Then  suddenly,  for  no  reason  at  all,  he  left  off  being 
Jehovah  and  began  tr>'ing  to  behave  like  Mr.  Batty. 

It  was  at  dinner,  the  lust  Sunday  before  the  thirteenth. 
Mamma  had  moved  Roddy  and  Mary  from  their  places  so 
that  Mark  and  Dan  could  sit  beside  her.  Mary  was  sitting 
at  the  right  hand  of  Papa  in  the  glory  of  the  Father.  The 
pudding  had  come  in;  blanc-mange,  and  Mark's  pudding 
with  whipped  cream  hiding  the  raspberry  jam.  It  was 
Roddy's  turn  to  be  helped;  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  snow- 
white,  pure  blanc-mange  shuddering  in  the  glass  dish,  and 
Mamma  had  just  asked  him  which  he  would  have  when 
Papa  sent  Mark  and  Dan  out  of  the  room.  You  couldn't 
think  why  he  had  done  it  this  time  unless  it  was  because 
Mark  laughed  when  Roddy  said  in  his  proud,  dignified 
voice,  "  I'll  have  a  little  piece  of  the  Virgin's  womb,  please, 
first."  Or  it  may  have  been  because  of  Mark's  pudding. 
He  never  liked  it  when  they  had  Mark's  pudding.  Any- 
how, Mark  and  Dan  had  to  go,  and  as  they  went  he  drew 
Mary's  chair  closer  to  him  and  heaped  her  plate  with  cream 
and  jam,  looking  very  straight  at  Mamma  as  he  did  it. 

"  You  might  have  left  them  alone,"  Mamma  said,  "  on 
their  last  Sunday.  They  won't  be  here  to  annoy  you  so 
very  long." 

Papa  said,  "  There  are  three  days  yet  till  the  thirteenth." 

"  Three  days!  You'll  count  the  hours  and  the  minutes  till 
you've  got  what  you  want." 

"  What  I  want  is  peace  and  quiet  in  my  house  and  to 
get  a  word  in  edgeways,  sometimes,  with  my  own  wife." 

"  You've  no  business  to  have  a  wife  if  you  can't  put  up 
with  your  own  children." 

"  It  isn't  my  business  to  have  a  wife,"  Papa  said.  "  It's 
my  pleasure.  My  business  is  to  insure  ships.  And  you  see 
me  putting  up  with  Mary  very  well.  I  suppose  she's  my 
own  child." 

"  Mark  and  Dan  are  your  own  children  first." 

"  Are  they?  To  judge  by  your  infatuation  I  should  have 
said  they  weren't.  '  Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary,  how  does 
your  garden  grow?  Silver  bells  and  cockle  shells,  and  choco- 
late creams  all  in  a  row.'  " 

He  took  a  large,  flat  box  of  chocolates  out  of  his  pocket 


CHILDHOOD  63 

and  laid  it  beside  her  plate.  And  he  looked  straight  at 
Mamma  again. 

"  If  those  are  the  chocolates  I  reminded  you  to  get  for  — 
for  the  hamper,  I  won't  have  them  opened." 

"  They  are  not  the  chocolates  you  reminded  me  to  get  for 
—  the  hamper.  I  suppose  Mark's  stomach  is  a  hamper. 
They  are  the  chocolates  I  reminded  myself  to  get  for  Mary." 

Then  Mamma  said  a  peculiar  thing. 

"  Are  you  trying  to  show  me  that  you're  not  jealous  of 
Mary?" 

"  I'm  not  trying  to  show  you  anything.  You  know  I'm 
not  jealous  of  Mary.  And  you  know  there's  no  reason  why 
I  should  be." 

"  To  hear  you,  Emilius,  anybody  would  think  I  wasn't 
fond  of  my  own  daughter.  Mary  darling,  you'd  better  run 
away." 

"  And  Mary  darling,"  he  mocked  her,  "  you'd  better  take 
your  chocolates  with  you." 

Mary  said:  "  I  don't  want  any  chocolates,  Papa." 

"  Is  that  her  contrariness,  or  just  her  Mariness?  " 

"  Whatever  it  is  it's  all  the  thanks  you  get,  and  serve 
you  right,  too,"  said  Mamma. 

She  went  upstairs  to  persuade  Dan  that  Papa  didn't 
mean  it.  It  was  just  his  way,  and  they'd  see  he  would  be 
different  to-morrow. 

But  to-morrow  and  the  next  day  and  the  next  he  was  the 
same.  He  didn't  actually  send  Mark  and  Dan  out  of  the 
room  again,  but  he  tried  to  pretend  to  himself  that  they 
weren't  there  by  refusing  to  speak  to  them. 

"  Do  you  think,"  Mark  said,  "  he'll  keep  it  up  till  the 
last  minute?  " 

He  did;  even  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  Mr.  Parish's 
wagonette  in  the  road,  coming  to  take  Mark  and  Dan  away. 
They  were  sitting  at  breakfast,  trying  not  to  look  at  him 
for  fear  they  should  laugh,  or  at  Mamma  for  fear  they 
should  cry,  trying  not  to  look  at  each  other.  Catty  brought 
in  the  cakes,  the  hot  buttered  Yorkshire  cakes  that  were 
never  served  for  breakfast  except  on  Christmas  Day  and 
birthdays.  Mary  wondered  whether  Papa  would  say  or  do 
anything.    He  couldn't.     Everybody  knew  those  cakes  were 


64  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

sacred.  Catty  set  them  on  the  table  with  a  sort  of  crash 
and  ran  out  of  the  room,  crying.     Mamma's  mouth  quivered. 

Papa  looked  at  the  cakes;  he  looked  at  Mamma;  he 
looked  at  Mark.  Mark  was  staring  at  nothing  with  a  firm 
grin  on  his  face. 

"  The  assuagers  of  grief,"  Papa  said.  "  Pass  round  the 
assuagers." 

The  holy  cakes  were  passed  round.  Everybody  took  a 
piece  except  Dan. 

Papa  pressed  him.     "  Try  an  assuager.    Do." 

And  Mamma  pleaded,  "  Yes,  Dank." 

"  Do  you  hear  what  your  mother  says?  " 

Dan's  eyes  were  red-rimmed.  He  took  a  double  section 
of  cake  and  tried  to  bite  his  way  through. 

At  the  first  taste  tears  came  out  of  his  eyes  and  fell  on 
his  cake.     And  when  Mamma  saw  that  she  burst  out  crying. 

Mary  put  her  piece  down  untasted  and  bit  back  her  sobs. 
Roddy  pushed  his  piece  away;  and  Mark  began  to  eat 
his,  suddenly,  bowing  over  it  with  an  affectation  of 
enjoyment. 

Outside  in  the  road  Mr.  Parish  was  descending  from  the 
box  of  his  wagonette.  Papa  looked  at  his  watch.  He  was 
going  with  them  to  Chelmsted. 

And  Mamma  whispered  to  Mark  and  Dan  with  her  last 
kiss,  "  He'll  be  all  right  in  the  train." 

It  was  all  over.  Mary  and  Roddy  sat  in  the  dining- 
room  where  Mamma  had  left  them.  They  had  shut  their 
eyes  so  as  not  to  see  the  empty  chairs  pushed  back  and  the 
pieces  of  the  sacred  cakes,  bitten  and  abandoned.  They 
had  stopped  their  ears  so  as  not  to  hear  the  wheels  of  Mr. 
Parish's  wagonette  taking  Mark  and  Dan  away. 

Hours  afterwards  Mamma  came  upon  Mary  huddled 
up  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room. 

"  Mamma  —  Mamma  —  I  can't  bear  it.  I  can't  live  with- 
out Mark.    And  Dan." 

Mamma  sat  down  and  took  her  in  her  arms  and  rocked 
her,  rocked  her  without  a  word,  soothing  her  own  grief. 

Papa  found  them  like  that  when  he  came  back  from 
Chelmsted.  He  stood  in  the  doorway  looking  at  them  for 
a  moment,  then  slunk  out  of  the  room  as  if  he  were  ashamed 


CHILDHOOD  65 

of  himself.  When  Mamma  sent  Mary  out  to  say  good-bye 
to  him,  he  was  standing  beside  the  little  sumach  tree  that 
Mark  gave  Mamma  on  her  birthday.  He  was  smiling  at 
the  sumach  tree  as  if  he  loved  it  and  was  sorry  for  it. 

And  Mamma  got  a  letter  from  Mark  in  the  morning  to 
say  she  was  right.    Papa  had  been  quite  decent  in  the  train. 


After  Mark  and  Dan  had  gone  a  great  and  very  remark- 
able change  came  over  Papa  and  Mamma.  Mamma  left  off 
saying  the  funny  things  that  Mary  could  not  understand, 
and  Papa  left  off  teasing  and  flying  into  tempers  and  looking 
like  Jehovah  and  walking  by  himself  in  the  cool  of  the 
evening.  He  followed  Mamma  about  the  garden.  He 
hung  over  her  chair,  like  Mark,  as  she  sat  sewing.  You 
came  upon  him  suddenly  on  the  stairs  and  in  the  passages, 
and  he  would  look  at  you  as  if  you  were  not  there,  and 
say,  "  Where's  your  mother?  Go  and  tell  her  I  want  her." 
And  Mamma  would  put  away  her  trowel  and  her  big  leather 
gloves  and  go  to  him.  She  would  sit  for  hours  in  the 
library  while  he  flapped  the  newspaper  and  read  to  her  in 
a  loud  voice  about  Mr.  Gladstone  whom  she  hated. 

Sometimes  he  would  come  home  early  from  the  office, 
and  Mamma  and  Mary  would  be  ready  for  him,  and  they 
would  all  go  together  to  call  at  Vinings  or  Barkingside 
Vicarage  or  on  the  Proparts. 

Or  Mr.  Parish's  wagonette  would  be  ordered,  and  Mamma 
and  Mary  would  put  on  their  best  clothes  ver>'  quick  and 
go  up  to  London  with  him,  and  he  would  take  them  to  St. 
Paul's  or  Maskelyne  and  Cooke's,  or  the  National  Gallery 
or  the  British  Museum.  Or  they  would  walk  slowly,  very 
slowly,  up  Regent  Street,  stopping  at  the  windows  of  the 
bonnet  shops  while  ]\Iamma  picked  out  the  bonnet  she  would 
buy  if  she  could  afford  it.  And  perhaps  the  next  day  a 
bonnet  would  come  in  a  bandbox,  a  bonnet  that  frightened 
her  when  she  put  it  on  and  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass. 
She  would  pretend  it  was  one  of  the  bonnets  she  had  wanted ; 
and  when  Papa  had  forgotten  about  it  she  would  pull  all 
the  trimming  off  and  put  it  all  on  again  a  different  way, 


66  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

and  Papa  would  say  it  was  an  even  more  beautiful  bonnet 
than  he  had  thought. 

You  might  have  supposed  that  he  was  sorry  because  he 
was  thinking  about  Mark  and  Dan  and  trying  to  make  up 
for  having  been  unkind  to  them.  But  he  was  not  sorry. 
He  was  glad.  Glad  about  something  that  Mamma  had 
done.  He  would  go  about  whistling  some  gay  tune,  or  you 
caught  him  stroking  his  moustache  and  parting  it  over  his 
rich  lips  that  smiled  as  if  he  were  thinking  of  what  Mamma 
had  done  to  make  him  happy.  The  red  specks  and  smears 
had  gone  from  his  eyes,  they  were  clear  and  blue,  and  they 
looked  at  you  with  a  kind,  gentle  look,  like  Uncle  Victor's. 
His  very  beard  was  happy. 

"  You  may  not  know  it,  but  your  father  is  the  handsomest 
man  in  Essex,"  Mamma  said. 

Perhaps  it  wasn't  anything  that  Mamma  had  done.  Per- 
haps he  was  only  happy  because  he  was  being  good.  Every 
Sunday  he  went  to  church  at  Barkingside  with  Mamma, 
kneeling  close  to  her  in  the  big  pew  and  praying  in  a  great, 
ghostly  voice,  "  Good  Lord,  deliver  us!  "  When  the  psalms 
and  hymns  began  he  rose  over  the  pew-ledge,  yards  and 
yards  of  him,  as  if  he  stood  on  many  hassocks,  and  he  lifted 
up  his  beard  and  sang.  All  these  times  the  air  fairly  tingled 
with  him;  he  seemed  to  beat  out  of  himself  and  spread 
around  him  the  throb  of  violent  and  overpowering  life. 
And  in  the  evenings  towards  sunset  they  walked  together 
in  the  fields,  and  Mary  followed  them,  lagging  behind  in  the 
borders  where  the  sharlock  and  wild  rye  and  poppies  grew. 
When  she  caught  up  with  them  she  heard  them  talking. 

Once  Mamma  said,  "  Why  can't  you  always  be  like  this, 
Emilius?  " 

And  Papa  said,  "Why,  indeed!  " 

And  when  Christmas  came  and  Mark  and  Dan  were  back 
again  he  was  as  cruel  and  teasing  as  he  had  ever  been. 

VI 

Eighteen  seventy-one. 

One  cold  day  Roddy  walked  into  the  Pool  of  Siloam  to 
recover  his  sailing  boat  which  had  drifted  under  the  long 
arch  of  the  bridge. 


CHILDHOOD  67 

There  was  no  Passion  Week  and  no  Good  Friday  and  no 
Easter  that  spring,  only  Roddy's  rheumatic  fever.  Roddy 
in  bed,  lying  on  his  back,  his  face  white  and  sharp,  his 
hair  darkened  and  glued  with  the  sweat  that  poured  from 
his  hair  and  soaked  into  the  bed.  Roddy  crying  out  with 
pain  when  they  moved  him.  Mamma  and  Jenny  always  in 
Roddy's  room,  Mr.  Spall's  sister  in  the  kitchen.  Mary 
going  up  and  down,  tiptoe,  on  messages,  trying  not  to  touch 
Roddy's  bed. 

Dr.  Draper  calling,  talking  in  a  low  voice  to  Mamma,  and 
Mamma  crying.  Dr.  Draper  looking  at  you  through  his 
spectacles  and  putting  a  thing  like  a  trumpet  to  your  chest 
and  listening  through  it. 

"  You're  quite  right,  Mrs.  Olivier.  There's  nothing  wrong 
with  the  little  girl's  heart.     She's  as  sound  as  a  bell." 

A  dreadful  feeling  that  you  had  no  business  to  be  as 
sound  as  a  bell.     It  wasn't  fair  to  Roddy. 

Something  she  didn't  notice  at  the  time  and  remembered 
afterwards  when  Roddy  was  well  again.  Jenny  saying  to 
Mamma,  "  If  it  had  to  be  one  of  them  it  had  ought  to  have 
been  Miss  Mary." 

And  Mamma  saying  to  Jenny,  "  It  wouldn't  have  mattered 
so  much  if  it  had  been  the  girl." 

VII 

You  knew  that  Catty  loved  you.  There  was  never  the 
smallest  uncertainty  about  it.  Her  big  black  eyes  shone 
when  she  saw  you  coming.  You  kissed  her  smooth  cool 
cheeks,  and  she  hugged  you  tight  and  kissed  you  back  again 
at  once;  her  big  lips  made  a  noise  like  a  pop-gun.  When 
she  tucked  you  up  at  night  she  said,  "  I  love  you  so  much 
I  could  eat  you." 

And  she  would  play  any  game  you  liked.  You  had  only 
to  say,  "  Let's  play  the  going-away  game,"  and  she  was  off. 
You  began:  ''  I  went  away  to  the  big  hot  river  where  the 
rhinoceroses  and  hippopotamuses  are";  or:  "I  went  away 
to  the  desert  where  the  sand  is,  to  catch  zebras.  I  rode  on 
a  dromedary,  flump-flumping  through  the  sand,"  and  Catty 
would  follow  it  up  with:  "  I  went  away  with  the  Good  Tem- 
plars.   We  went  in  a  row-boat  on  a  lake,  and  we  landed  on 


68  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

an  island  where  there  was  daffodillies  growing.  We  had 
milk  and  cake;  and  it  blew  such  a  cool  breeze." 

Catty  was  full  of  love.  She  loved  her  father  and  mother 
and  her  little  sister  Amelia  better  than  anything  in  the 
whole  world.  Her  home  was  in  Wales.  Tears  came  into 
her  eyes  when  she  thought  about  her  home  and  her  little 
sister  Amelia. 

"  Catty  —  how  much  do  you  love  me?  " 

"  Armfuls  and  armiuls." 

"  As  much  as  your  mother?  " 

"  Very  near  as  much." 

"  As  much  as  Amelia?  " 

"  Every  bit  as  much." 

"  How  much  do  you  think  Jenny  loves  me?  " 

"  Ever  so  much." 

"  No.  Jenny  loves  Roddy  best;  then  Mark;  then  Dank; 
then  Mamma ;  then  Papa ;  then  me.    That  isn't  ever  so  much." 

Catty  was  vexed.  "  You  didn't  oughter  go  measuring 
people's  love,  Miss  Mary." 

Still,  that  was  what  you  did  do.  With  Catty  and  Jenny 
you  could  measure  till  you  knew  exactly  where  you  were. 

Mamma  was  different. 

You  knew  when  she  loved  you.  You  could  almost  count 
the  times:  the  time  when  Papa  frightened  you;  the  time 
when  you  cut  your  forehead ;  the  time  the  lamb  died ;  all  the 
whooping-cough  and  chicken-pox  times,  and  wlien  Meta, 
the  wax  doll,  fell  off  the  schoolroom  table  and  broke  her 
head;  and  when  Mark  went  away  to  school.  Or  when  you 
were  good  and  said  every  word  of  your  lessons  right;  when 
you  watched  Mamma  working  in  the  garden,  planting  and 
transplanting  the  flowers  with  her  clever  hands;  and  when 
you  were  quiet  and  sat  beside  her  on  the  footstool,  learning 
to  knit  and  sew.  On  Sunday  afternoons  when  she  played 
the  hymns  and  you  sang: 

"  There's  a  Friend  for  little  children 
Above  the  bright  blue  sky," 

quite  horribly  out  of  tune,  and  when  you  listened  while  she 
sang  herself,  "  Lead,  kindly  light,"  or  ''  Abide  with  me," 
and  her  voice  was  so  sweet  and  gentle  that  it  made  you  cry. 
Then  you  knew. 


CHILDHOOD  69 

Sometimes,  when  it  was  not  Sunday,  she  played  the  Hun- 
garian March,  that  went,  with  loud,  noble  noises: 

Droom  —  Droom  —  Droom-era-room 
Droom  —  Droom  —  Droom-era-room 
Droom  rer-room-room  droom-room-room 
Droom  —  Droom  —  Droom. 

It  was  wonderful.  Mamma  was  wonderful.  She  swayed 
and  bowed  to  the  beat  of  the  music,  as  if  she  shook  it  out  of 
her  body  and  not  out  of  the  piano.  She  smiled  to  herself 
when  she  saw  that  you  were  listening.  You  said  "  Oh  • — 
Mamma!  Play  it  again,"  and  she  played  it  again.  When 
she  had  finished  she  stooped  suddenly  and  kissed  you.  And 
you  knew. 

But  she  wouldn't  say  it.    You  couldn't  make  her. 

"  Say  it,  Mamma.     Say  it  like  you  used  to." 

Mamma  shook  her  head. 

"  I  want  to  hear  you  say  it." 

"  Well,  I'm  not  going  to." 

"  I  love  you.  I  ache  with  loving  you.  I  love  you  so 
much  that  it  hurts  me  to  say  it." 

"  Why  do  you  do  it,  then?  " 

"  Because  it  hurts  me  more  not  to.  Just  once.  '  I  love 
you.'    Just  a  weeny  once." 

"  You're  going  to  be  like  your  father,  tease,  tease,  tease, 
all  day  long,  till  I'm  worn  out." 

"  I'm  not  going  to  be  like  Papa.  I  don't  tease.  It's  you 
that's  teasing.  How'm  I  to  know  you  love  me  if  you  won't 
say  it?  " 

Mamma  said,  ''  Can't  you  see  what  I'm  doing?  " 

"  No." 

She  was  not  interested  in  the  thin  white  stuff  and  the  lace 
—  Mamma's  needle-work. 

"  Well,  then,  look  in  the  basket." 

The  basket  was  full  of  tiny  garments  made  of  the  white 
stuff,  petticoats,  drawers  and  nightgown,  sewn  with  minute 
tucks  and  edged  with  lace.     Mamma  unfolded  them. 

"  New  clothes,"  she  said,  "  for  your  new  dolly." 

"  Oh  —  oh  —  oh  —  I  love  you  so  much  that  I  can't  bear  it ; 
you  little  holy  Mamma !  " 


70  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mamma  said,  "  I'm  not  holy,  and  I  won't  be  called  holy. 
I  want  deeds,  not  words.  If  you  love  me  you'll  learn  your 
lessons  properly  the  night  before,  not  just  gabble  them  over 
hot  from  the  pan." 

"  I  will,  Mamma,  I  will.    Won't  you  say  it?  " 

"  No,"  Mamma  said,  "  I  won't." 

She  sat  there  with  a  sort  of  triumph  on  her  beautiful  face, 
as  if  she  were  pleased  with  herself  because  she  hadn't  said 
it.  And  Mary  would  bring  the  long  sheet  that  dragged  on 
her  wrist,  and  the  needle  that  pricked  her  fingers,  and  sit 
at  Mamma's  knee  and  sew,  making  a  thin  trail  of  blood  all 
along  the  hem. 

"  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  kindly  when  I'm  sewing?  " 

"  Because  I  like  to  see  you  behaving  like  a  little  girl, 
instead  of  tearing  about  and  trying  to  do  what  boys  do." 

And  Mamma  would  tell  her  a  story,  always  the  same 
story,  going  on  and  on,  about  the  family  of  ten  children 
who  lived  in  the  farm  by  the  forest.  There  were  seven 
boys  and  three  girls.  The  six  youngest  boys  worked  on  the 
farm  with  their  father  —  yes,  he  was  a  very  nice  father  — 
and  the  eldest  boy  worked  in  the  garden  with  his  mother, 
and  the  three  girls  worked  in  the  house.  They  could  cook 
and  make  butter  and  cheese,  and  bake  bread;  and  even  the 
youngest  little  girl  could  knit  and  sew. 

"  Had  they  any  children?  " 

"  No,  they  were  too  busy  to  think  about  having  children. 
They  were  all  very,  very  happy  together,  just  as  they  were." 

The  story  was  like  the  hem,  there  was  never  any  end  to 
it,  for  Mamma  was  always  finding  something  else  for  the 
three  girls  to  do.  She  smiled  as  she  told  it,  as  if  she  saw 
something  that  pleased  her. 

Mary  felt  that  she  could  go  on  sewing  at  the  hem  and 
pricking  her  finger  for  ever  if  Mamma  would  only  keep 
that  look  on  her  face. 

VIII 


"  I   can't,   Jenny,   I   can't.    I   know   there's   a   fimeral 
coming." 


CHILDHOOD  71 

Mary  stood  on  the  jQagstonc  inside  the  arch  of  the  open 
gate.  She  looked  up  and  down  the  road  and  drew  back 
again  into  the  garden.  Jenny,  tired  and  patient,  waited 
outside. 

"  I've  told  you,  Miss  Mary,  there  isn't  any  funeral." 

"  If  there  isn't  there  will  be.     There!     I  can  see  it." 

"  You  see  Mr.  Parish's  high  'at  a  driving  in  his  wagonette." 

It  was  Mr.  Parish's  high  hat.  When  he  put  the  black 
top  on  his  wagonette  it  looked  like  a  hearse. 

They  started  up  Ley  Street  towards  Mr.  Spall's  cottage. 

Jenny  said,  "  I  thought  you  was  going  to  be  such  a  good 
girl  when  Master  Roddy  went  to  school.  But  I  declare  if 
you're  not  twice  as  tiresome." 

Roddy  had  gone  to  Chelmsted  after  midsummer.  She 
had  to  go  for  WMlks  on  the  roads  with  Jenny  now  at  the 
risk  of  meeting  funerals. 

This  week  they  had  been  every  day  to  Ilford  to  call  at 
Mr.  Spall's  cottage  or  at  Benny's,  the  draper's  shop  in  the 
High  Street. 

Jenny  didn't  believe  that  a  big  girl,  nine  next  birthday, 
could  really  be  afraid  of  funerals.  She  thought  you  were 
only  trying  to  be  tiresome.  She  said  you  could  stop  thinking 
about  funerals  well  enough  when  you  wanted.  You  did 
forget  sometimes  when  nice  things  happened ;  when  3^ou  went 
to  see  Mrs.  Farmer's  baby  undressed,  and  when  Isabel 
Batty  came  to  tea.  Isabel  was  almost  a  baby.  It  felt 
nice  to  lift  her  and  curl  up  her  stiff,  barley-sugar  hair  and 
sponge  her  weak,  pink  silk  hands.  And  there  were  things 
that  you  could  do.  You  could  pretend  that  you  were  not 
Mary  Olivier  but  somebody  else,  that  you  were  grown-up 
and  that  the  baby  and  Isabel  belonged  to  you  and  were 
there  when  they  were  not  there.  But  all  the  time  you  knew 
there  would  be  a  funeral  on  the  road  somewhere,  and  that 
some  day  you  would  see  it. 

When  they  got  into  the  High  Street  the  funeral  was 
coming  along  the  Barking  Road.  She  saw,  before  Jenny 
could  see  anything  at  all,  the  mutes,  sitting  high,  and  their 
black,  bunched-up  weepers.  She  turned  and  ran  out  of  the 
High  Street  and  back  over  the  railway  bridge.  Jenny  called 
after  her,  "  Come  back!  "  and  a  man  on  the  bridge  shouted 


72  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"Hi,  Missy!  Stop!"  as  she  ran  down  Ley  Street.  Her 
legs  shook  and  gave  way  under  her.  Once  she  fell.  She 
ran,  staggering,  but  she  ran.  People  came  out  of  their 
cottages  to  look  at  her.  She  thought  they  had  come  out  to 
look  at  the  funeral. 

After  that  she  refused  to  go  outside  the  front  door  or  to 
look  through  the  front  windows  for  fear  she  should  see  a 
funeral. 

They  couldn't  take  her  and  carry  her  out;  so  they  let 
her  go  for  walks  in  the  back  garden.  When  Papa  came 
home  she  was  sent  up  to  the  schoolroom  to  play  with  the 
doll's  house.  You  could  see  the  road  through  the  high  bars 
of  the  window  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  so  that  even  when 
Catty  lit  the  gas  the  top  floor  was  queer  and  horrible. 

Sometimes  doubts  came  with  her  terror.  She  thought: 
"  Nobody  loves  me  except  Mark.  And  Mark  isn't  here." 
Mark's  image  haunted  her.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  it  slid 
forward  on  to  the  darkness,  the  strong  body,  the  brave, 
straight  up  and  down  face,  the  steady,  light  brown  eyes, 
shining;  the  firm,  sweet  mouth;  the  sparrow-brown  hair 
with  feathery  golden  tips.  She  could  hear  Mark's  voice 
calling  to  her:  ''Minx!    Minky!" 

And  there  was  something  that  Mamma  said.  It  was 
unkind  to  be  afraid  of  the  poor  dead  people.  Mamma  said, 
"  Would  you  run  away  from  Isabel  if  you  saw  her  lying 
in  her  little  cofiin?  " 

n 

Jenny's  new  dress  had  come. 

It  was  made  of  grey  silk  trimmed  with  black  lace,  and  it 
lay  spread  out  on  the  bed  in  the  spare  room.  Mamma  and 
Aunt  Bella  stood  and  looked  at  it,  and  shook  their  heads 
as  if  they  thought  that  Jenny  had  no  business  to  wear  a 
silk  dress. 

Aunt  Bella  said,  "  She's  a  silly  woman  to  go  and  leave  a 
good  home.    At  her  age." 

And  Mamma  said,  "  I'd  rather  see  her  in  her  coffin.  It 
would  be  less  undignified.  She  meant  to  do  it  at  Easter; 
she  was  only  waiting  till  Roddy  went  to  school.  She's 
waiting  now  till  after  the  Christmas  holidays." 


CHILDHOOD  73 

Jenny  was  going  to  do  something  dreadful. 
She  was  going  to  be  married.     The  grey  silk  dress  was 
her  wedding-dress.     She  was  going  to  marry   Mr.  Spall. 
Even  Catty  thought  it  was  rather  dreadful. 

But  Jenny  was  happy  because  she  was  going  to  wear  the 
grey  silk  dress  and  live  in  Mr.  Spall's  cottage  and  talk  to 
him  about  Jesus.  Only  one  half  of  her  face  drooped 
sleepily;  the  other  half  had  waked  up,  and  looked  excited; 
there  was  a  flush  on  it  as  bright  as  paint. 

m 

Mary's  bed  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  night  nursery,  and 
beside  it  was  the  high  yellow  linen  cupboard.  When  the 
doors  were  opened  there  was  a  faint  india-rubbery  smell 
from  the  mackintosh  sheet  that  had  been  put  away  on  the 
top  shelf. 

One  night  she  was  wakened  by  Catty  coming  into  the 
room  and  opening  the  cupboard  doors.  Catty  climbed  on 
a  chair  and  took  something  from  the  top  shelf.  She  didn't 
answer  when  Mary  asked  what  she  was  doing,  but  hurried 
away,  leaving  the  door  on  the  latch.  Her  feet  made  quick 
thuds  along  the  passage.  A  door  opened  and  shut,  and 
there  was  a  sound  of  Papa  going  downstairs.  Somebody 
came  up  softly  and  pulled  the  door  to,  and  Mary  went  to 
sleep  again. 

When  she  woke  the  room  was  full  of  the  grey  light  that 
frightened  her.  But  she  was  not  frightened.  She  woke 
sitting  up  on  her  pillow,  staring  into  the  grey  light,  and 
saying  to  herself,  "  Jenny  is  dead." 

But  she  was  not  afraid  of  Jenny.  The  stillness  in  her 
heart  spread  into  the  grey  light  of  the  room.  She  lay  back 
waiting  for  seven  o'clock  when  Catty  would  come  and  call 
her. 

At  seven  o'clock  Mamma  came.  She  wore  the  dress  she 
had  worn  last  night,  and  she  was  crying. 

Mary  said,  "  You  haven't  got  to  say  it.  I  know  Jenny 
is  dead." 

The  blinds  were  drawn  in  all  the  windows  when  she  and 
Mark  went  into  the  front  garden  to  look  for  snowdrops  in 


74  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

the  border  by  the  kitchen  area.  She  knew  that  Jenny's 
dead  body  lay  on  the  sofa  under  the  kitchen  window  behind 
the  blind  and  the  white  painted  iron  bars.  She  hoped  that 
she  would  not  have  to  see  it;  but  she  was  not  afraid  of 
Jenny's  dead  bodj^     It  was  sacred  and  holy. 

She  wondered  why  Mamma  sent  her  to  Uncle  Edward 
and  Aunt  Bella.  From  the  top-storey  windows  of  Chadwell 
Grange  you  could  look  beyond  Aldborough  Hatch  towards 
Wanstead  Flats  and  the  City  of  London  Cemetery.  They 
were  going  to  bury  Jenny  there.  She  stood  looking  out, 
quiet,  not  crying.  She  only  cried  at  night  when  she  thought 
of  Jenny,  sitting  in  the  low  nursery  chair,  tired  and  patient, 
drawing  back  from  her  violent  caresses,  and  of  the  grey 
silk  dress  laid  out  on  the  bed  in  the  spare  room. 

She  was  not  even  afraid  of  the  City  of  London  Cemetery 
when  Mark  took  her  to  see  Jenny's  grave.  Jenny's  grave 
was  sacred  and  holy. 

IX 


You  had  to  endure  hardness  after  you  were  nine.  You 
learnt  out  of  Mrs.  Markham's  "  History  of  England,"  and 
you  were  not  allowed  to  read  the  conversations  between 
Richard  and  Mary  and  Mrs.  Markham  because  they  made 
history  too  amusing  and  too  easy  to  remember.  For  the 
same  reason  you  translated  only  the  tight,  dismal  pages  of 
your  French  Reader,  and  anything  that  looked  like  an 
interesting  story  was  forbidden.  You  were  to  learn  for  the 
sake  of  the  lesson  and  not  for  pleasure's  sake.  Mamma  said 
you  had  enough  pleasure  in  play-time.  She  put  it  to  your 
honour  not  to  skip  on  to  the  more  exciting  parts. 

When  you  had  finished  Mrs.  Markham  you  began  Dr. 
Smith's  "  History  of  England."  Honour  was  safe  with  Dr. 
Smith.  He  made  history  very  hard  to  read  and  impossible 
to  remember. 

The  Bible  got  harder,  too.  You  knew  all  the  best  Psalms 
by  heart,  and  the  stories  about  Noah's  ark  and  Joseph  and 
his  coat  of  many  colours,  and  David,  and  Daniel  in  the 
lions'  den.    You  had  to  go  straight  through  the  Bible  now, 


CHILDHOOD  75 

skipping  Leviticus  because  it  was  full  of  things  you  couldn't 
understand.  When  you  had  done  with  Moses  lifting  up  the 
serpent  in  the  wilderness  you  had  to  read  about  Aaron  and 
the  sons  of  Levi,  and  the  wave-offerings,  and  the  tabernacle, 
and  the  ark  of  the  covenant  where  they  kept  the  five  golden 
emerods.  Mamma  didn't  know  what  emerods  were,  but 
Mark  said  they  were  a  kind  of  white  mice. 

You  learnt  Old  Testament  history,  too,  out  of  a  little 
book  that  was  all  grey  slabs  of  print  and  dark  pictures 
showing  the  earth  swallowing  up  Korah,  Dathan  and 
Abiram,  and  Aaron  and  the  sons  of  Levi  with  their  long 
beards  and  high  hats  and  their  petticoats,  swinging  incense 
in  fits  of  temper.  You  found  out  queerer  and  queerer 
things  about  God.  God  made  the  earth  swallow  up  Korah, 
Dathan  and  Abiram.  He  killed  poor  Uzzah  because  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  prevent  the  ark  of  the  covenant  falling  out 
of  the  cart.  Even  David  said  he  didn't  know  how  on  earth 
he  was  to  get  the  ark  along  at  that  rate.  And  there  were 
the  Moabites  and  the  Midianites  and  all  the  animals:  the 
bullocks  and  the  he-goats  and  the  little  lambs  and  kids. 
When  you  asked  Mamma  why  God  killed  people,  she  said 
it  was  because  he  was  just  as  well  as  merciful,  and  (it  was 
the  old  story)  he  hated  sin.  Disobedience  was  sin,  and 
Uzzah  had  been  disobedient. 

As  for  the  lambs  and  the  he-goats,  Jesus  had  done  away 
with  all  that.  He  was  God's  son,  and  he  had  propitiated 
God's  anger  and  satisfied  his  justice  when  he  shed  his  own 
blood  on  the  cross  to  save  sinners.  Without  shedding  of 
blood  there  is  no  remission  of  sins.  You  were  not  to  bother 
about  the  blood. 

But  you  couldn't  help  bothering  about  it.  You  couldn't 
help  being  sorry  for  Uzzah  and  the  Midianites  and  the  lambs 
and  the  he-goats. 

Perhaps  you  had  to  sort  things  out  and  keep  them  sep- 
arate. Here  was  the  world,  here  were  Mamma  and  Mark 
and  kittens  and  rabbits,  and  all  the  things  you  really  cared 
about:  drawing  pictures,  and  playing  the  Hungarian  March 
and  getting  excited  in  the  Easter  holidays  when  the  white 
evenings  came  and  Mark  raced  you  from  the  Green  Man 
to  the  Horns  Tavern.     Here  was  the  sudden,  secret  happi- 


76  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

ness  you  felt  when  you  were  by  yourself  and  the  fields 
looked  beautiful.  It  was  always  coming  now,  with  a  sort 
of  rush  and  flash,  when  you  least  expected  it. 

And  there  was  God  and  religion  and  duty.  The  nicest 
part  of  religion  was  music,  and  knowing  how  the  world  was 
made,  and  the  beautiful  sounding  bits  of  the  Bible.  You 
could  like  religion.  But  duty  was  doing  all  the  things  you 
didn't  like  because  you  didn't  like  them.  And  you  couldn't 
honestly  say  you  liked  God.  God  had  to  be  propitiated; 
your  righteousness  was  filthy  rags;  so  you  couldn't  pro- 
pitiate him.  Jesus  had  to  do  it  for  you.  All  you  had  to 
do  was  to  believe,  really  believe  that  he  had  done  it. 

But  supposing  you  hadn't  got  to  believe  it,  supposing  you 
hadn't  got  to  believe  anything  at  all,  it  would  be  easier  to 
think  about.  The  things  you  cared  for  belonged  to  each 
other,  but  God  didn't  belong  to  them.  He  didn't  fit  in 
anywhere.  You  couldn't  help  feeling  that  if  God  was  love, 
and  if  he  was  everywhere,  he  ought  to  have  fitted  in.  Per- 
haps, after  all,  there  were  two  Gods;  one  who  made  things 
and  loved  them,  and  one  who  didn't;  who  looked  on  sulking 
and  finding  fault  with  what  the  clever  kind  God  had  made. 

When  the  midsummer  holidays  came  and  brook- jumping 
began  she  left  off  thinking  about  God. 

n 

"  Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  a  crown  " — 

The  picture  in  the  Sunday  At  Home  showed  the  old  King 

in  bed  and  Prince  Hal  trying  on  his  crown.    But  the  words 

were  not  the  Sunday  At  Home;  they  were  taken  out  of 

Shakespeare.     Mark  showed  her  the  place. 

Mark  was  in  the  schoolroom  chanting  his  home-lessons: 

"  '  Yet  once  more,  oh  ye  laurels,  and  once  more, 
Ye  myrtles  brown  with  ivy  never  sere  '  "  — 

That  sounded  nice.     "  Say  it  again,  Mark,  say  it  again." 
Mark  said  it  again.    He  also  said: 


Achilles'  wrath,  to  Greece  the  direful  spring 
Of  woes  unnumbered,  heavenly  goddess,  sing! 


CHILDHOOD  77 

The  three  books  stood  on  the  bookshelf  in  the  schoolroom, 
the  thin  Shakespeare  in  diamond  print,  the  small  browTi 
leather  Milton,  the  very  small  fat  Pope's  Iliad  in  the  red 
cover.    Mark  gave  them  to  her  for  her  own. 

She  made  Catty  put  her  bed  between  the  two  windows, 
and  Mark  made  a  bookshelf  out  of  a  piece  of  wood  and 
some  picture  cord,  and  hung  it  within  reach.  She  had  a 
happy,  excited  feeling  when  she  thought  of  the  three  books ; 
it  made  her  wake  early.  She  read  from  five  o'clock  till 
Catty  called  her  at  seven,  and  again  after  Catty  had  tucked 
her  up  and  left  her,  till  the  white  light  in  the  room  was  grey. 

She  learnt  Lycidas  by  heart,  and 

"  I  thought  I  saw  my  late  espoused  wife 
Brought  to  me  like  Alcestis  from  the  grave,"  — 

and  the  bits  about  Satan  in  Paradise  Lost.  The  sound  of 
the  lines  gave  her  the  same  nice  feeling  that  she  had  when 
Mrs.  Propart  played  the  March  in  Scipio  after  Evening 
Service.  She  tried  to  make  lines  of  her  own  that  went  the 
same  way  as  the  lines  in  Milton  and  Shakespeare  and  Pope's 
Iliad.  She  found  out  that  there  was  nothing  she  liked  so 
much  as  making  these  lines.  It  was  nicer  even  than  playing 
the  Hungarian  March.  She  thought  it  was  funny  that  the 
lines  like  Pope's  Iliad  came  easiest,  though  they  had  to 
rhyme. 

"  Silent  he  wandered  by  the  sounding  sea,"  was  good,  but 
the  Greek  line  that  Mark  showed  her  went:  "Be  d'akeon 
para  thina  poluphloisboio  thalasses " ;  that  was  better. 
"  Don't  you  think  so,  Mark?  " 

"Clever  Minx.     Much  better." 

"  Mark  —  if  God  knew  how  happy  I  am  writing  poetry 
he'd  make  the  earth  open  and  swallow  me  up." 

Mark  only  said,  "  You  mustn't  say  that  to  Mamma.  Play 
'  Violetta.'  " 

Of  all  hateful  and  disgusting  tunes  the  most  disgusting 
and  the  most  hateful  was  "  Violetta,"  which  Mr.  Sippett's 
sister  taught  her.  But  if  Mark  would  promise  to  make 
Mamma  let  her  learn  Greek  she  would  play  it  to  him  twenty 
times  running. 

When  Mark  went  to  Chelmsted  that  autumn  he  left  her 


78  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

his  brown  Greek  Accidence  and  Smith's  Classical  Diction- 
ary, besides  Macaulay's  Lays  of  Ancient  Rome.  She 
taught  herself  Greek  in  the  hour  after  breakfast  before  Miss 
Sippett  came  to  give  her  her  music  lesson.  She  was  always 
careful  to  leave  the  Accidence  open  where  Miss  Sippett 
could  see  it  and  realise  that  she  was  not  a  stupid  little  girl. 
But  whether  Miss  Sippett  saw  the  Accidence  or  not  she 
always  behaved  as  if  it  wasn't  there. 


in 

When  Mamma  saw  the  Accidence  open  on  the  drawing- 
room  table  she  shut  it  and  told  you  to  put  it  in  its  proper 
place.  If  you  talked  about  it  her  mouth  buttoned  up  tight, 
and  her  eyes  blinked,  and  she  began  tapping  with  her  foot. 

There  was  something  queer  about  learning  Greek. 
Mamma  did  not  actually  forbid  it ;  but  she  said  it  must  not 
be  done  in  lesson  time  or  sewing  time,  or  when  people  could 
see  you  doing  it,  lest  they  should  think  you  were  showing 
off.  You  could  see  that  she  didn't  believe  you  could  learn 
Greek  and  that  she  wouldn't  like  it  if  you  did.  But  when 
lessons  were  over  she  let  you  read  Shakespeare  or  Pope's 
Iliad  aloud  to  her  while  she  sewed.  And  when  you  could 
say: 

"  Lars  Porsena  of  Clusium 
By  the  nine  Gods  he  swore  " — 

straight  through  without  stopping  she  went  into  London  with 
Papa  and  brought  back  the  Child's  First  History  of  Rome. 
A  Pinnock's  Catechism  of  Mythology  in  a  blue  paper  cover 
went  with  the  history  to  tell  you  all  about  the  gods  and 
goddesses.  What  Pinnock  didn't  tell  you  you  found  out 
from  Smith's  Classical  Dictionary.  It  had  pictures  in  it  so 
beautiful  that  you  were  happy  just  sitting  still  and  looking 
at  them.  There  was  such  a  lot  of  gods  and  goddesses  that  at 
first  they  were  rather  hard  to  remember.  But  you  couldn't 
forget  Apollo  and  Hermes  and  Aphrodite  and  Pallas  Athene 
and  Diana.  They  were  not  like  Jehovah.  They  quarrelled 
sometimes,  but  they  didn't  hate  each  other;  not  as  Jehovah 
hated  all  the  other  gods.    They  fitted  in  somehow.    They 


CHILDHOOD  79 

cared  for  all  the  things  you  liked  best:  trees  and  animals 
and  poetry  and  music  and  running  races  and  playing  games. 
Even  Zeus  was  nicer  than  Jehovah,  though  he  reminded  you 
of  him  now  and  then.  He  liked  sacrifices.  But  then  he  was 
honest  about  it.  He  didn't  pretend  that  he  was  good  and 
that  he  had  to  have  them  because  of  your  sins.  And  you 
hadn't  got  to  believe  in  him.  That  was  the  nicest  thing 
of  all. 


Mary  was  ten  in  eighteen  seventy-three. 

Aunt  Charlotte  was  ill,  and  nobody  was  being  kind  to 
her.  She  had  given  her  Sunday  bonnet  to  Harriet  and  her 
Sunday  gown  to  Catty;  so  you  knew  she  was  going  to  be 
married  again.  She  said  it  was  prophesied  that  she  should 
be  married  in  eighteen  seventy-three. 

The  illness  had  something  to  do  with  being  married  and 
going  continually  to  Mr.  Marriott's  church  and  calling  on 
Mr.  Marriott  and  writing  letters  to  him  about  religion. 
You  couldn't  say  Aunt  Charlotte  was  not  religious.  But 
Papa  said  he  would  believe  in  her  religion  if  she  went  to 
Mr.  Batty's  church  or  Mr.  Farmer's  or  Mr.  Propart's.  They 
had  all  got  v/ives  and  Mr.  Marriott  hadn't.  Papa  had  for- 
bidden Aunt  Charlotte  to  go  any  more  to  Mr.  Marriott's 
church. 

Mr.  Marriott  had  written  a  nice  letter  to  Uncle  Victor, 
and  Uncle  Victor  had  taken  Papa  to  see  him,  and  the  doctor 
had  come  to  see  Aunt  Charlotte  and  she  had  been  sent  to 
bed. 

Aunt  Charlotte's  room  was  at  the  top  of  the  tall,  thin 
white  house  in  the  High  Street.  There  was  whispering  on 
the  stairs.  Mamma  and  Aunt  Lav\'y  stood  at  the  turn ;  you 
could  see  their  vexed  faces.  Aunt  Charlotte  called  to  them 
to  let  Mary  come  to  her.  Mary  was  told  she  might  go  if 
she  were  very  quiet. 

Aunt  Charlotte  was  all  by  herself  sitting  up  in  a  large 
white  bed.  A  Bible  propped  itself  open,  leaves  do^Tiwards, 
against  the  mound  she  made.  There  was  something  startling 


80  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

about  the  lengths  of  white  curtain  and  the  stretches  of  white 
pillow  and  counterpane,  and  Aunt  Charlotte's  very  black 
eyebrows  and  hair  and  the  cover  of  the  Bible,  very  black, 
and  her  blue  eyes  glittering. 

She  was  writing  letters.  Every  now  and  then  she  took 
up  the  Bible  and  picked  out  a  text  and  wrote  it  down.  She 
wrote  very  fast,  and  as  she  finished  each  sheet  she  hid  it 
under  the  bed-clothes,  and  made  a  sign  to  show  that  what 
she  was  doing  was  a  secret. 

"  Love  God  and  you'll  be  happy.  Love  God  and  you'll 
be  happy,"  she  said. 

Her  eyes  pointed  at  you.  They  looked  wise  and  solemn 
and  excited. 

A  wide  flat  piece  of  counterpane  was  left  over  from  Aunt 
Charlotte.  Mary  climbed  up  and  sat  in  it  with  her  back 
against  the  foot-rail  and  looked  at  her.  Looking  at  Aunt 
Charlotte  made  you  think  of  being  bom. 

"  Aunt  Charlotte,  do  you  know  what  being  born  is?  " 

Aunt  Charlotte  looked  up  under  her  eyebrows,  and  hid 
another  sheet  of  paper.  "  What's  put  that  in  your  head  all 
of  a  sudden?  " 

"  It's  because  of  my  babies.  Catty  says  I  couldn't  have 
thirteen  all  under  three  years  old.    But  I  could,  couldn't  I?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  think  you  could,"  Aunt  Charlotte 
said. 

"  Why  not?     Catty  won't  say  why." 

Aunt  Charlotte  shook  her  head,  but  she  was  smiling  and 
looking  wiser  and  more  solemn  than  ever.  ''  You  mustn't 
ask  too  many  questions,"  she  said. 

"  But  you  haven't  told  me  what  being  bom  is.  I  know 
it's  got  something  to  do  with  the  Virgin  Mary." 

Aunt  Charlotte  said,  ''Sh-sh-sh!  You  mustn't  say  that, 
Nice  little  girls  don't  think  about  those  things." 

Her  tilted  eyes  had  turned  down  and  her  mouth  had 
stopped  smiling.  So  you  knew  that  being  bom  was  not 
frightening.  It  had  something  to  do  with  the  things  you 
didn't  talk  about. 

And  yet  —  how  could  it?     There  was  the  Virgin  Mary. 

"Aunt  Charlotte,  don't  you  wish  you  had  a  baby?  " 

Aunt  Charlotte  looked  frightened,  suddenly,  and  began 
to  cry. 


CHILDHOOD  81 

"  You  mustn't  say  it,  Mary,  you  mustn't  say  it.  Don't 
tell  them  you  said  it.  They'll  think  I've  been  talking  about 
the  babies.  The  little  babies.  Don't  tell  them.  Promise 
me  you  won't  tell." 

II 

"  Aunt  Lavvy  —  I  wish  I  knew  what  you  thought  about 
Jehovah?  " 

When  Aunt  Lavvy  stayed  with  you  Mamma  made  you 
promise  not  to  ask  her  about  her  opinions.  But  sometimes 
you  forgot.  Aunt  Lavvy  looked  more  than  ever  as  if  she 
was  by  herself  in  a  quiet  empty  room,  thinking  of  something 
that  wasn't  there.  You  couldn't  help  feeling  that  she  knew 
things.  Mamma  said  she  had  always  been  the  clever  one, 
just  as  Aunt  Charlotte  had  always  been  the  queer  one;  but 
Aunt  Bella  said  she  was  no  better  than  an  unbeliever, 
because  she  was  a  Unitarian  at  heart. 

"  Why  Jehovah  in  particular?  "  Aunt  Lav^^  was  like 
Uncle  Victor;  she  listened  politely  when  you  talked  to  her, 
as  if  you  were  saying  something  interesting. 

"  Because  he's  the  one  you've  got  to  believe  in.  Do  you 
really  think  he  is  so  very  good?  " 

"  I  don't  think  anything.  I  don't  know  anything,  except 
that  God  is  love." 

"  Jehovah  wasn't." 

"  Jehovah  —  "  Aunt  Lav\^  stopped  herself.  "  I  mustn't 
talk  to  you  about  it  —  because  I  promised  your  mother  I 
wouldn't." 

It  was  very  queer.  Aunt  Lawy's  opinions  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  religion,  yet  Mamma  said  you  mustn't  talk 
about  them. 

"  I  promised,  too,  I  shall  have  to  confess  and  ask  her 
to  forgive  me." 

"  Then,"  said  Aunt  Lavvy,  "  be  sure  you  tell  her  that  I 
didn't  talk  to  you.     Promise  me  you'll  tell  her." 

That  was  what  Aunt  Charlotte'had  said.  Talking  about 
religion  was  like  talking  about  being  born. 


Q 


82  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

XI 


Nobody  has  any  innate  ideas.  Children  and  savages  and 
idiots  haven't  any,  so  grown-up  people  can't  have,  Mr. 
Locke  says. 

But  how  did  he  know?  You  might  have  them  and  forget 
about  them,  and  only  remember  again  after  you  were  grown 
up. 

She  sat  up  in  the  drawing-room  till  nine  o'clock  now, 
because  she  w\^s  eleven  years  old.  She  had  taken  the  doll's 
clothes  out  of  the  old  wooden  box  and  filled  it  with  books: 
the  Bible,  Milton,  and  Pope's  Homer,  the  Greek  Accidence, 
and  Plutarch's  Lives,  and  the  Comedies  from  Papa's  illus- 
trated Shakespeare  in  seven  volumes,  which  he  never  read, 
and  two  volumes  of  Pepys'  Diary,  and  Locke  On  the  Human 
Understanding.  She  wished  the  Bible  had  been  bound  in 
pink  calf  like  Pepys  instead  of  the  shiny  black  leather  that 
made  you  think  of  wet  goloshes.  Then  it  would  have  looked 
new  and  exciting  like  the  other  books. 

She  sat  on  a  footstool  with  her  box  beside  her  in  the 
corner  behind  Mamma's  chair.  She  had  to  hide  there  be- 
cause Mamma  didn't  believe  you  really  liked  reading.  She 
thought  you  were  only  shamming  and  showing  off.  Some- 
times Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farmer  would  come  in,  and  Mr.  Farmer 
would  play  chess  with  Papa  while  Mrs.  Farmer  talked  to 
Mamma  about  how  troublesome  and  independent  the  trades- 
people were,  and  how  hard  it  was  to  get  servants  and  to 
keep  them.  Mamma  listened  to  Mrs.  Farmer  as  if  she  were 
saying  something  wonderful  and  exciting.  Sometimes  it 
would  be  the  Proparts;  or  Mr.  Batty  would  come  in  alone. 
And  sometimes  they  would  all  come  together  with  the  aunts 
and  uncles,  and  there  would  be  a  party. 

Mary  always  hoped  that  Uncle  Victor  would  notice  her 
and  say,  "  Mary  is  reading  Locke  On  the  Human  Under- 
standing," or  that  Mr.  Propart  would  come  and  turn  over 
the  books  and  make  some  interesting  remark.  But  they 
never  did. 

At  half-past  eight  Catty  would  bring  in  the  tea-tray ;  the 


CHILDHOOD  83 

white  and  grey  and  gold  tea-cups  would  be  set  out  round  the 
bulging  silver  tea-pot  that  lifted  up  its  spout  with  a  foolish, 
pompous  expression,  like  a  hen.  Mamma  would  move  about 
the  table  in  her  mauve  silk  gown,  and  there  would  be  a 
scent  of  cream  and  strong  tea.  Every  now  and  then  the 
shimmering  silk  and  the  rich  scent  would  come  between 
her  and  the  grey,  tight-pressed,  difficult  page. 

" '  The  senses  at  first  let  in  particular  ideas  and  furnish 
the  yet  empty  cabinet:  and  the  mind  growing  by  degrees 
familiar  with  some  of  them,  they  are  lodged  in  the  memor>' 
and  names  got  to  them.' 

"  Then  how  —  Then  how?  —  " 

The  thought  she  thought  was  coming  wouldn't  come,  and 
Mamma  was  telling  her  to  get  up  and  hand  round  the  bread 
and  butter. 


n 

"  Mr.  Ponsonby,  do  you  remember  your  innate  ideas?  " 

"  My  how  much?  "  said  Mr.  Ponsonby. 

"  The  ideas  you  had  before  you  were  born?  " 

Mr.  Ponsonby  said,  "  Before  I  was  born?  Well —  "  He 
really  seemed  to  be  considering  it. 

Mamma's  chair,  pushed  further  along  the  hearthrug,  had 
driven  her  back  and  back,  till  the  box  was  hidden  behind 
the  curtain. 

Mr.  Ponsonby  was  Mark's  friend.  Mark  was  at  the 
Royal  Military  Academy  at  Woolwich  now.  Every  Satur- 
day Mr.  Ponsonby  came  home  with  Mark  and  stayed  till 
Sunday  evening.  You  knew  that  sooner  or  later  he  would 
find  you  out  behind  Mamma's  chair. 

"  I  mean,"  she  said,  "  the  ideas  you  were  born  with." 

"  Seems  to  me,"  said  Mr.  Ponsonby,  "  I  was  born  wdth 
precious  few.    Anyhow  I  can't  say  I  remember  them." 

"  I  was  afraid  you'd  say  that.    It's  what  Mr.  Locke  says." 

"  Mr.  how  much?" 

"  Mr.  Locke.    You  can  look  at  him  if  you  like." 

She  thought:  "  He  won't.  He  won't.  They  never,  never 
do." 

But  Mr.  Ponsonby  did.     He  looked  at  Mr.  Locke,  and  he 


84  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

looked  at  Mary,  and  he  said,  "  By  Gum!  "  He  even  read 
the  bits  about  the  baby  and  the  empty  cabinet. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  like  this  sort  of  thing?  " 

"  I  like  it  most  awfully.  Of  course  I  don't  mean  as  much 
as  brook- jumping,  but  almost  as  much." 

And  Mr.  Ponsonby  said,  "  Well  —  I  must  say  —  of  all  — 
you  are  —  by  Gum !  " 

He  made  it  sound  like  the  most  delicious  praise. 

Mr.  Ponsonby  was  taller  and  older  than  Mark.  He  was 
nineteen.  She  thought  he  was  the  nicest  looking  person  she 
had  ever  seen. 

His  face  was  the  colour  of  thick  white  honey ;  his  hair  was 
very  dark,  and  he  had  long  blue  eyes  and  long  black  eye- 
brows like  bars,  drawn  close  down  on  to  the  blue.  His  nose 
would  have  been  hooky  if  it  hadn't  been  so  straight,  and  his 
mouth  was  quiet  and  serious.  When  he  talked  to  you  his 
mouth  and  eyes  looked  as  if  they  liked  it. 

Mark  came  and  said,  "  Minky,  if  you  stodge  like  that 
you'll  get  all  flabby." 

It  wasn't  nice  of  Mark  to  say  that  before  Mr.  Ponsonby, 
when  he  knew  perfectly  well  that  she  could  jump  her  own 
height. 

"Me  flabby?    Feel  my  muscle." 

It  rose  up  hard  under  her  soft  skin. 

"  Feel  it,  Mr.  Ponsonby." 

"  I  say  —  what  a  biceps!  " 

"  Yes,  but,"  Mark  said,  "  you  should  feel  his." 

His  was  even  bigger  and  harder  than  Mark's.  "  Mine," 
she  said  sorrowfully,  "  will  never  be  as  good  as  his." 

Then  Mamma  came  and  told  her  it  was  bed-time,  and 
Mr.  Ponsonby  said,  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Olivier,  not  yet." 

"  Five  minutes  more,  then." 

But  the  five  minutes  were  never  any  good.  You  just  sat 
counting  them. 

And  when  it  was  all  over  and  Mr.  Ponsonby  strode  across 
the  drawing-room  and  opened  the  door  for  her  she  went 
laughing;  she  stood  in  the  doorway  and  laughed.  When 
you  were  sent  to  bed  at  nine  the  only  dignified  thing  was  to 
pretend  you  didn't  care. 

And  Mr.  Ponsonby,  holding  the  door  so  that  Mamma 


CHILDHOOD  86 

couldn't  see  him,  looked  at  her  and  shook  his  head,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  You  and  I  know  it  isn't  a  joke  for  either  of  us, 
this  unrighteous  banishment." 


m 

"  What  on  earth  are  you  doing?  " 

She  might  have  known  that  some  day  Mamma  would 
come  up  and  find  her  putting  the  children  to  bed. 

She  had  seven.  There  was  Isabel  Batty,  and  Mrs. 
Farmer's  red-haired  baby,  and  Mark  in  the  blue  frock  in  the 
picture  when  he  was  four,  and  Dank  in  his  white  frock  and 
blue  sash,  and  the  three  very  little  babies  you  made  up  out 
of  your  head.     Six  o'clock  was  their  bed-time. 

"  You'd  no  business  to  touch  those  baby-clothes,"  Mamma 
said. 

The  baby-clothes  were  real.  Every  evening  she  took  them 
from  the  drawer  in  the  linen  cupboard;  and  when  she  had 
sung  the  children  to  sleep  she  shook  out  the  little  frocks 
and  petticoats  and  folded  them  in  a  neat  pile  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed. 

"  I  thought  you  were  in  the  schoolroom  learning  your 
lessons?  " 

"So  I  was,  Mamma.  But  —  you  know  —  six  o'clock  is 
their  bed-time." 

"  Oh  Mary!  you  told  me  you'd  given  up  that  silly  game." 

"  So  I  did.  But  they  won't  let  me.  They  don't  want 
me  to  give  them  up." 

Mamma  sat  down,  as  if  it  was  too  much  for  her. 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  "  you  don't  talk  to  Catty  or  anybody 
about  it." 

"  No,  Mamma.     I  couldn't.    They're  my  secret." 

"  That  was  all  very  well  when  you  were  a  little  thing. 
But  a  great  girl  of  twelve —  You  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  yourself." 

Mamma  had  gone.  She  had  taken  away  the  baby- 
clothes.     Mary  lay  face  downwards  on  her  bed. 

Shame  burned  through  her  body  like  fire.  Hot  tears 
scalded  her  eyelids.     She  thought:  "  How  was  I  to  know  you 


86  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

mustn't  have  babies?  "    Still,  she  couldn't  give  them  all  up. 
She  must  keep  Isabel  and  the  red-haired  baby. 
But  what  would  Mr.  Ponsonby  think  of  her  if  he  knew? 

IV 

"  Mr.  Ponsonby.  Mr.  Ponsonby !  Stay  where  you  are 
and  look!  " 

From  the  window  at  the  end  of  the  top  corridor  the  side 
of  the  house  went  sheer  down  into  the  lane.  Mary  was  at 
the  window.     Mr.  Ponsonby  was  in  the  lane. 

She  climbed  on  to  the  ledge  and  knelt  there.  Grasping 
the  bottom  of  the  window  frame  firmly  with  both  hands  and 
letting  her  knees  slide  from  the  ledge,  she  lowered  herself, 
and  hung  for  one  ecstatic  moment,  and  drew  herself  up 
again  by  her  arms. 

"  What  did  you  do  it  for,  Mary?  " 

Mr.  Ponsonby  had  rushed  up  the  stairs  and  they  were 
sitting  there.  He  was  so  tall  that  he  hung  over  her  when 
he  leaned. 

"  It's  nothing.  You  ought  to  be  able  to  pull  up  your  own 
weight." 

"  You  mustn't  do  it  from  top-storey  windows.  It's  dan- 
gerous." 

"  Not  if  you've  practised  on  the  banisters  first.  Where's 
Mark?  " 

"  With  your  Mater.  I  say,  supposing  you  and  I  go  for 
a  walk." 

"  We  must  be  back  at  six  o'clock,"  she  said. 

When  you  went  for  walks  with  Mark  or  Mr.  Ponsonby 
they  always  raced  you  down  Ley  Street  and  over  the  ford 
at  the  bottom.  They  both  gave  you  the  same  start  to  the 
Horn's  Tavern;  the  only  difference  was  that  with  Mr.  Pon- 
sonby you  were  over  the  ford  first. 

They  turned  at  the  ford  into  the  field  path  that  led  to 
Drake's  Farm  and  the  plantation.  He  jumped  all  the  stiles 
and  she  vaulted  them.  She  could  see  that  he  respected  her. 
And  so  they  came  to  the  big  water  jump  into  the  plantation. 
Mr.  Ponsonby  went  over  first  and  held  out  his  arms.  She 
hurled  herself  forward  and  he  caught  her.     And  this  time, 


CHILDHOOD  87 

instead  of  putting  her  down  instantly,  he  lifted  her  up  in  his 
arms  and  held  her  tight  and  kissed  her.  Her  heart  thumped 
violently  and  she  had  a  sudden  happy  feeling.  Neither 
spoke. 

Humphrey  Propart  had  kissed  her  once  for  a  forfeit. 
And  she  had  boxed  his  ears.  Mr.  Ponsonby's  was  a  different 
sort  of  kiss. 

They  tore  through  the  plantation  as  if  nothing  had  hap- 
pened, clearing  all  the  brooks  in  a  business-like  way.  Mr. 
Ponsonby  took  brook-jumping  as  the  serious  and  delightful 
thing  it  was. 

Going  home  across  the  fields  they  held  each  other's  hands, 
like  children.  "  Minky,"  he  said,  "  I  don't  like  to  think 
of  you  hanging  out  of  top-storey  windows." 

"  But  it's  so  jolly  to  feel  your  body  come  squirming  up 
after  your  arms." 

"  It  is.  It  is.  All  the  same,  promise  me  you  won't  do 
it  any  more." 

"  Why?  " 

"  Because  I'm  going  to  India  when  I've  passed  out,  and 
I  want  to  find  you  alive  when  I  come  back.  Promise  me, 
Minky." 

"  I  will,  if  you're  really  going.  But  you're  the  only 
person  I  allow  to  call  me  Minky,  except  Mark." 

"  Am  I?    I'm  glad  I'm  the  only  person." 

They  went  on. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  she  said,  "  my  hand  is  getting  very  hot 
and  horrid." 

He  held  it  tighter.  "  I  don't  care  how  hot  and  horrid  it 
gets.    And  I  think  you  might  call  me  Jimmy." 

It  was  long  after  six  o'clock.  She  had  forgotten  the 
children  and  their  bed-time.  After  that  day  she  never 
played  with  them  again. 


"  If  I  were  you,"  Mamma  said,  "  I  should  put  away  that 
box  of  books.  You'll  be  no  use  if  you  read  —  read  —  read 
all  day  long." 

"  You  oughtn't  to  say  that.  Mamma.     I  am  of  use.     You 


88  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

know  I  can  make  the  sewing-machine  go  when  you  can't." 

Mamma  smiled.     She  knew  it. 

"  And  which  would  you  rather  took  you  over  the  crossing 
at  the  Bank?     Me  or  Papa?  " 

Mamma  smiled  again.  She  knew  she  was  safer  with 
Mary  at  a  crossing,  because  Papa  teased  her  and  frightened 
her  before  he  dragged  her  over.  But  Mary  led  her  gently, 
holding  back  the  noses  of  the  horses. 

"  There's  that  Locke  on  the  human  understanding,"  said 
Mamma.  "  Poor  Jimmy  was  frightened  when  he  found  you 
reading  it.'' 

"  He  wasn't.    He  was  most  awfully  pleased  and  excited." 

"  He  was  laughing  at  you." 

"  He  wasn't.     He  wasn't." 

"  Of  course  he  was  laughing  at  you.  What  did  you  think 
he  was  doing?  " 

"  I  thought  he  was  interested." 

"  He  wasn't,  then.  Men,"  Mamma  said,  "  are  not  inter- 
ested in  little  book-worms.  He  told  me  it  was  very  bad 
for  you." 

Shame  again.  Hot,  burning  and  scalding  shame.  He 
was  only  laughing  at  her. 

"  Mark  doesn't  laugh  at  me,"  she  said.  The  thought  of 
Mark  and  of  his  love  for  her  healed  her  wound. 

"  A  precious  deal,"  Mamma  said,  "  you  know  about 
Mark." 

Mamma  was  safe.  Oh,  she  was  safe.  She  knew  that 
Mark  loved  her  best. 

VI 

On  the  cover  of  Pinnock's  Catechism  there  was  a  small 
black  picture  of  the  Parthenon.     And  under  it  was  written: 

"  Abode  of  gods  whose  shrines  no  longer  burn." 

Supposing  the  candles  in  St.  Mary's  Chapel  no  longer 
burned  ? 

Supposing  Barkingside  church  and  Aldborough  Hatch 
church  fell  to  bits  and  there  were  no  more  clergymen?  And 
you  only  read  in  history  books  about  people  like  Mr.  Batty 
and  Mr.  Propart  and  their  surplices  and  the  things  they  wore 
round  their  necks? 


CHILDHOOD 


89 


Supposing  the  Christian  religion  passed  away? 

It  excited  you  to  think  these  things.  But  when  you  heard 
the  "  Magnificat  "  in  church,  or  when  you  thought  of  Christ 
hanging  so  bravely  on  the  cross  you  were  sorry  and  you 
stopped  thinking. 

What  a  pity  you  couldn't  ever  go  on  without  having  to 

stop. 


END  OF  BOOK  TWO 


BOOK   THREE 

ADOLESCENCE 
1876-1879 


Oil 


BOOK   THREE 

ADOLESCENCE 
XII 


Mary  went  slowly  up  the  lane  between  the  garden  wall 
and  the  thorn  hedge. 

The  air,  streaming  towards  her  from  the  flat  fields,  had 
the  tang  of  cold,  glittering  water;  the  sweet,  grassy  smell 
of  the  green  com  blades  swam  on  it.  The  young  thorn 
leaves  smelt  of  almonds  and  of  their  own  bitter  green. 

The  five  trees  stood  up,  thin  and  black,  in  an  archway  of 
golden  white  fire.  The  green  of  their  young  leaves  hung 
about  them  like  an  emanation. 

A  skylark  swung  himself  up,  a  small  grey  ball,  spinning 
over  the  tree  tops  to  the  arch  of  the  sunset.  His  song 
pierced  and  shook,  like  the  golden  white  light.  With  each 
throb  of  his  wings  he  shrank,  smaller  and  greyer,  a  moth,  a 
midge,  whirling  in  the  luminous  air.  A  grey  ball  dropped 
spinning  down. 

By  the  gate  of  the  field  her  sudden,  secret  happiness  came 
to  her. 

She  could  never  tell  when  it  was  coming,  nor  what  it 
would  come  from.  It  had  something  to  do  with  the  trees 
standing  up  in  the  golden  white  light.  It  had  come  before 
with  a  certain  sharp  white  light  flooding  the  fields,  flooding 
the  room. 

It  had  happened  so  often  that  she  received  it  now  with 
a  shock  of  recognition;  and  when  it  was  over  she  wanted 
it  to  happen  again.  She  would  go  back  and  back  to  the 
places  where  it  had  come,  looking  for  it,  thinking  that  any 

93 


94  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

minute  it  might  happen  again.    But  it  never  came  twice  to 
the  same  pLace  in  the  same  way. 

Catty  was  calling  to  her  from  the  bottom  of  the  lane. 
She  stood  still  by  the  gate,  not  heeding  Catty,  holding  her 
happiness.  When  she  had  turned  from  the  quiet  fields  it 
would  be  gone. 

n 

Sometimes  she  had  queer  glimpses  of  the  persons  that 
were  called  Mary  Olivier.  There  was  Mrs.  Olivier's  only 
daughter,  proud  of  her  power  over  the  sewing-machine. 
When  she  brought  the  pile  of  hemmed  sheets  to  her  mother 
her  heart  swelled  with  joy  in  her  own  goodness.  There  was 
Mark  Olivier's  sister,  who  rejoiced  in  the  movements  of  her 
body,  the  strain  of  the  taut  muscles  throbbing  on  their  own 
leash,  the  bound  forwards,  the  push  of  the  wind  on  her  knees 
and  breast,  the  hard  feel  of  the  ground  under  her  padding 
feet.  And  there  was  Mary  Olivier,  the  little  girl  of  thirteen 
whom  her  mother  and  Aunt  Bella  whispered  about  to  each 
other  with  mysterious  references  to  her  age. 

Her  secret  happiness  had  nothing  to  do  with  any  of  these 
Mary  Oliviers.  It  was  not  like  any  other  happiness.  It 
had  nothing  to  do  with  Mamma  or  Dan  or  Roddy,  or  even 
Mark.     It  had  nothing  to  do  with  Jimmy. 

She  had  cried  when  Jimmy  went  away,  and  she  would 
cry  again  to-night  when  she  thought  about  him.  Jimmy's 
going  away  was  worse  than  anything  that  had  happened  yet 
or  could  happen  till  Mark  went  to  India.  That  would  be 
the  worst  thing. 

Jimmy  had  not  gone  to  India  as  he  had  said.  He  had 
had  to  leave  Woolwich  because  of  something  he  had  done, 
and  his  father  had  sent  him  to  Australia.  He  had  gone 
without  saying  good-bye,  and  he  was  never  coming  back. 
She  would  never  in  all  her  life  see  Jimmy  again. 

Jimmy  had  done  something  dreadful. 

Nobody  but  Mamma  and  Papa  and  Mark  knew  what  he 
had  done;  but  from  the  way  they  talked  you  could  see  that 
it  was  one  of  those  things  you  mustn't  talk  about.  Only 
Mark  said  he  didn't  believe  he  really  had  done  it. 


ADOLESCENCE  95 

Last  Sunday  she  had  written  a  letter  to  him  which  Mark 
posted : 

"  Dear  Jimmy,  —  I  think  you  might  have  come  to  say 
good-bye  to  us,  even  if  Papa  and  Mamma  do  think  you've 
done  something  you  oughtn't  to.  I  want  you  to  know  that 
Mark  and  I  don't  believe  you  did  it,  and  even  if  you  did  it 
won't  make  any  difference.  I  shall  always  love  you  just  the 
same,  next  best  to  Mark.  You  can't  expect  me  to  love  you 
really  best,  because  he  will  always  come  first  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  hope  you  will  be  very  happy  in  Australia.  I  shall 
keep  my  promise  just  the  same,  though  it's  Australia  and 
not  India  you've  gone  to. 

''  With  love,  ever  your  loving 

"  MlNKY. 

"  P.S.  No.  1. —  I'm  reading  a  new  poet  —  Byron.  There 
was  a  silly  woman  who  said  she'd  rather  have  the  fame  of 
Childe  Harold  than  the  immortality  of  Don  Juan.  But  I'd 
rather  have  the  immortality,  wouldn't  you? 

"  P.S.  No.  2. —  Do  you  think  that  you  will  keep  Kanga- 
roos?   They  might  help  to  make  you  happy." 

m 

Mary  was  picking  French  beans  in  the  kitchen  garden 
when  Mamma  and  Aunt  Bella  came  along  the  path,  talking 
together.     The  thick  green  walls  of  the  runners  hid  her. 

"  Mary  is  getting  very  precocious,"  said  Mamma. 

"  That  comes  from  being  brought  up  with  boys,"  said 
Aunt  Bella.     "  She  ought  to  see  more  girls  of  her  own  age." 

"  She  doesn't  like  them." 

Mary  shouted  "Cuckoo!"  to  warn  them,  but  they 
wouldn't  stop. 

"  It's  high  time,"  Aunt  Bella  said,  "  that  she  should  learn 
to  like  them.  The  Draper  girls  are  too  old.  But  there's 
that  little  Bertha  Mitchison." 

"  I  haven't  called  on  Mrs.  Mitchison  for  two  years." 

"  And  why  haven't  you,  Caroline?  " 

"  Because  I  can't  afford  to  be  always  hiring  wagonettes 
to  go  to  Woodford  Bridge." 


96  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

"Cuckoo!" 

"  Caroline  —  do  you  think  she  could  have  heard?  " 

"  Cuckoo,  Aunt  Bella !    Cuckoo !  " 

IV 

On  the  high  road  the  white  dust  had  a  clear,  sharp,  excit- 
ing smell.    At  the  wet  edges  of  the  ford  it  thickened. 

When  you  shut  your  eyes  you  could  still  see  Bertha's 
scarlet  frock  on  the  white  bridge  path  and  smell  the  wet 
earth  at  the  edges  of  the  ford. 

You  were  leaning  over  the  white  painted  railing  of  the 
bridge  when  she  began.  The  water  flowed  from  under  the 
little  tunnel  across  the  road  into  the  field  beyond.  Deep 
brown  under  the  tunnel,  tawny  in  the  shallow  ford,  golden 
patches  where  the  pebbles  showed  through,  and  the  water 
itself,  a  sheet  of  thin  crystal,  running  over  the  colours, 
sliding  through  them,  running  and  sliding  on  and  on. 

There  was  nothing  in  the  world  so  beautiful  as  water, 
unless  it  was  light.    But  water  was  another  sort  of  light. 

Bertha  pushed  her  soft  sallow  face  into  yours.  Her  big 
black  eyes  bulged  out  under  her  square  fringe.  Her  wide 
red  mouth  curled  and  glistened.  There  were  yellowish 
stains  about  the  roots  of  her  black  hair.  Her  mouth  and 
eyes  teased  you,  mocked  you,  wouldn't  let  you  alone. 

Bertha  began:  "  I  know  something  you  don't  know." 

You  listened.  You  couldn't  help  listening.  You  simply 
had  to  know.  It  was  no  use  to  say  you  didn't  believe  a 
word  of  it.  Inside  you,  secretly,  you  knew  it  was  true. 
You  were  frightened.  You  trembled  and  went  hot  and  cold 
by  turns,  and  somehow  that  was  how  you  knew  it  was  true ; 
almost  as  if  you  had  known  all  the  time. 

"  Oh,  shut  up!    I  don't  want  to  hear  about  it." 

"Oh,  don't  you?    You  did  a  minute  ago." 

"  Of  course  I  did,  when  I  didn't  know.  Who  wouldn't? 
I  don't  want  to  know  any  more." 

"  I  like  that.  After  I've  told  you  everything.  What's 
the  good  of  putting  your  fingers  in  your  ears  nowf  " 

There  was  that  day;  and  there  was  the  next  day  when 
she  was  sick  of  Bertha.  On  the  third  day  Bertha  went 
back  to  Woodford  Bridge. 


ADOLESCKNCa  97 


It  was  dreadful  and  at  the  same  time  funny  when  you 
thought  of  Mr.  Batty  and  Mr.  Propart  with  their  little  round 
hats  and  their  black  coats  and  their  stiff,  dignified  faces. 
And  there  was  Uncle  Edward  and  his  whiskers.  It  couldn't 
be  true. 

Yet  all  true  things  came  like  that,  with  a  queer  feeling, 
as  if  you  remembered  them. 

Jenny's  wedding  dress.  It  would  be  true  even  of  Jenny. 
Mamma  had  said  she  would  rather  see  her  in  her  coflBn  than 
married  to  Mr.  Spall.     That  was  why. 

But  —  if  it  was  true  of  everybody  it  would  be  true  of 
Mamma  and  Papa.  That  was  what  you  hated  knowing. 
If  only  you  had  gone  on  looking  at  the  water  instead  of 
listening  to  Bertha  — 

Mamma's  face,  solemn  and  tender,  when  you  said  your 
prayers,  playing  with  the  gold  tassel  of  her  watch-chain. 
Papa's  face,  on  your  birthday,  when  he  gave  you  the  toy 
lamb.  She  wouldn't  like  you  to  know  about  her.  Mark 
wouldn't  like  it. 

Mark:  her  mind  stood  still.  Mark's  image  stood  still  in 
clean  empty  space.  When  she  thought  of  her  mother  and 
Mark  she  hated  Bertha. 

And  there  was  Jimmy.  That  was  why  they  wouldn't 
talk  about  him. 

Jimmy.  The  big  water-jump  into  the  plantation.  Jimmy's 
arms,  the  throb  of  the  hard  muscles  as  he  held  you. 
Jimmy's  hand,  your  own  hand  lying  in  it,  light  and 
small.  Jimmy's  eyes,  looking  at  you  and  smiling,  as  if  they 
said,  "  It's  all  right,  Minky,  it's  all  right." 

Perhaps  when  Papa  was  young  Mamma  thought  about 
him  as  you  thought  about  Jimmy;  so  that  it  couldn't  be  so 
very  dreadful,  after  all. 

XIII 

I 

Maby  was  glad  when  Bertha  went  away  to  school. 
When  the  new  year  came  and  she  was  fourteen  she  had 


98  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

almost  forgotten  Bertha.  She  even  forgot  for  long  stretches 
of  time  what  Bertha  had  told  her.    But  not  altogether. 

Because,  if  it  was  true,  then  the  story  of  the  Virgin  Mary- 
was  not  true.  Jesus  couldn't  have  been  born  in  the  way  the 
New  Testament  said  he  was  born.  There  was  no  such  thing 
as  the  Immaculate  Conception.  You  could  hardly  be  ex- 
pected to  believe  in  it  once  you  knew  why  it  couldn't  have 
happened. 

Aiid  if  the  Bible  could  deceive  you  about  an  important 
thing  like  that,  it  could  deceive  you  about  the  Incarnation 
and  the  Atonement.  You  were  no  longer  obliged  to  believe 
in  that  ugly  business  of  a  cruel,  bungling  God  appeased  with 
bloodshed.  You  were  not  obliged  to  believe  anything  just 
because  it  was  in  the  Bible. 

But  —  if  you  didn't,  you  were  an  Infidel, 

She  could  hear  Aunt  Bella  talking  to  Uncle  Edward,  and 
Mrs.  Farmer  and  Mrs.  Propart  whispering:  "  Mary  is  an 
Infidel." 

She  thought:  "  If  I  aw  I  can't  help  it."  She  was  even 
slightly  elated,  as  if  she  had  set  out  on  some  happy,  danger- 
ous adventure. 

n 

Nobody  seemed  to  know  what  Pantheism  was.  Mr.  Pro- 
part  smiled  when  you  asked  him  and  said  it  was  something 
you  had  better  not  meddle  with.  Mr.  Farmer  said  it  was 
only  another  word  for  atheism;  you  might  as  well  have 
no  God  at  all  as  be  a  pantheist.  But  if  "  pan  "  meant  "  all 
things,"  and  "  theos  "  was  God  — 

Perhaps  it  would  be  in  the  Encyclopcedia  Britannica.  The 
Encyclopsedia  told  you  all  about  Australia.  There  was  even 
a  good  long  bit  about  Byron,  too. 

Panceput  —  Panegyric  —  Pantheism !  There  you  were. 
Pantheism  is  "  that  speculative  system  which  by  absolutely 
identifying  the  Subject  and  Object  of  thought,  reduces  all 
existence,  mental  and  material,  to  phenomenal  modifications 
of  one  eternal,  self-existent  Substance  which  is  called  by  the 
name  of  God.  ...    All  things  are  God." 

When  you  had  read  the  first  sentence  five  or  six  times 
over  and  looked  up  "  Subject "  and  "  Object "  and  "  Phe- 


ADOLESCENCE  99 

nomenal,"  you  could  see  fairly  well  what  it  meant.  What- 
ever else  God  might  be,  he  was  not  what  tliey  said,  some- 
thing separate  and  outside  things,  something  that  made  your 
mind  uncomfortable  when  you  tried  to  think  about  it. 

"  This  universe,  material  and  mental,  is  nothing  but  the 
spectacle  of  the  thoughts  of  God." 

You  might  have  known  it  would  be  like  that.  The  uni- 
verse, going  on  inside  God,  as  your  thoughts  go  on  inside 
you;  the  universe,  so  close  to  God  that  nothing  could  be 
closer.     The  meaning  got  plainer  and  plainer. 

There  was  Spinoza.  ("Spinning  —  Spinoza.")  The  En- 
cyclopaedia man  said  that  the  Jewish  priests  offered  him  a 
bribe  of  two  thousand  florins  to  take  back  what  he  had  said 
about  God ;  and  when  he  refused  to  take  back  a  word  of  it, 
they  cursed  him  and  drove  him  out  of  their  synagogue. 

Spinoza  said,  "  There  is  no  substance  but  God,  nor  can 
any  other  be  conceived."  And  the  Encyclopaedia  man  ex- 
plained it.  "  God,  as  the  infinite  substance,  with  its  infinity 
of  attributes  is  the  natura  naturans.  As  the  infinity  of 
modes  under  which  his  attributes  are  manifested,  he  is  the 
natura  naturata." 

Nature  naturing  would  be  the  cause,  and  Nature  natured 
would  be  the  effect.     God  was  both. 

"God  is  the  immanent" — indwelling  —  "but  not  the 
transient  cause  of  all  things  "...  "  Thought  and  Exten- 
sion are  attributes  of  the  one  absolute  substance  which  is 
God,  evolving  themselves  in  two  parallel  streams,  so  to 
speak,  of  which  each  separate  body  and  spirit  are  but  the 
waves.  Body  and  Soul  are  apparently  two,  but  really  one 
and  thej^  have  no  independent  existence:  They  are  parts  of 
God.  .  .  .  Were  our  knowledge  of  God  capable  of  present 
completeness  we  might  attain  to  perfect  happiness  but  such 
is  not  possible.  Out  of  the  infinity  of  his  attributes  only 
two,  Thought  and  Extension,  are  accessible  to  us  while  the 
modes  of  these  attributes,  being  essentially  infinite,  escape 
our  grasp." 

So  this  was  the  truth  about  God.  In  spite  of  the  queer 
words  it  was  very  simple.  Much  simpler  than  the  Trinity. 
God  was  not  three  incomprehensible  Persons  rolled  into  one, 
not  Jesus,  not  Jehovah,  not  the  Father  creating  the  world  in 


100  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

six  days  out  of  nothing,  and  muddling  it,  and  coming  down 
from  heaven  into  it  as  his  own  son  to  make  the  best  of  a 
bad  job.  He  was  what  you  had  felt  and  thought  him  to 
be  as  soon  as  you  could  think  about  him  at  all.  The  God  of 
Baruch  Spinoza  was  the  God  you  had  wanted,  the  only  sort 
of  God  you  cared  to  think  about.  Thinking  about  him  — 
after  the  Christian  God  —  was  like  coming  out  of  a  small 
dark  room  into  an  immense  open  space  filled  with  happy 
light. 

And  yet,  as  far  back  as  you  could  remember,  there  had 
been  a  regular  conspiracy  to  keep  you  from  knowing  the 
truth  about  God.  Even  the  Encyclopaedia  man  was  in  it. 
He  tried  to  put  you  off  Pantheism.  He  got  into  a  temper 
about  it  and  said  it  was  monstrous  and  pernicious  and  pro- 
foundly false  and  that  the  heart  of  man  rose  up  in  revolt 
against  it.  He  had  begun  by  talking  about  "  attempts  to 
transgress  the  fixed  boundaries  which  One  wiser  than  we 
has  assigned  to  our  intellectual  operations."  Perhaps  he 
was  a  clergyman.  Clergymen  always  put  you  off  like  that; 
so  that  you  couldn't  help  suspecting  that  they  didn't  really 
know  and  were  afraid  you  would  find  them  out.  They  were 
like  poor  little  frightened  Mamma  when  she  wouldn't  let 
you  look  at  the  interesting  bits  beyond  the  place  she  had 
marked  in  your  French  Reader.  And  they  were  always 
apologising  for  their  God,  as  if  they  felt  that  there  was 
something  wrong  with  him  and  that  he  was  not  quite  real. 

But  to  the  pantheists  the  real  God  was  so  intensely  real 
that,  compared  with  him,  being  alive  was  not  quite  real,  it 
was  more  like  dreaming. 

Another  thing:  the  pantheists  —  the  Hindu  ones  and  the 
Greeks,  and  Baruch  Spinoza  —  were  heathen,  and  the  Chris- 
tians had  tried  to  make  you  believe  that  the  heathen  went 
to  hell  because  they  didn't  know  the  truth  about  God.  You 
had  been  told  one  lie  on  the  top  of  another.  And  all  the 
time  the  truth  was  there,  in  the  Encyclopedia  Britannica. 

Who  would  have  thought  that  the  Encyclopaedia  could 
have  been  so  exciting? 

The  big  puce-coloured  books  stood  in  a  long  row  in  the 
bottom  shelf  behind  her  father's  chair.  Her  heart  thumped 
when  she  gripped  the  volumes  that  contained  the  forbidden 


ADOLESCENCE  101 

knowledge  of  the  universe.  The  rough  morocco  covers  went 
Rr-rr-rimp,  as  they  scraped  together;  and  there  was  the 
sharp  thud  as  they  fell  back  into  their  place  when  she  had 
done  with  them.  These  sounds  thrilled  her  with  a  secret 
joy.  When  she  was  away  from  the  books  she  liked  to  think 
of  them  standing  there  on  the  hidden  shelf,  waiting  for  her. 
The  pages  of  "  Pantheism  "  and  "  Spinoza  "  were  white  and 
clean,  and  she  had  noticed  how  they  had  stuck  together. 
Nobody  had  opened  them.  She  was  the  first,  the  only  one 
who  knew  and  cared. 


m 

She  wondered  what  Mark  and  her  mother  would  say  when 
they  knew.  Perhaps  Mark  would  say  she  ought  not  to  tell 
her  mother  if  it  meant  letting  out  that  the  Bible  said  things 
that  were  not  really  true.  His  idea  might  be  that  if  Mamma 
wanted  to  believe  in  Jehovah  and  the  Atonement  through 
Christ's  blood,  it  would  be  unkind  to  try  and  stop  her. 
But  who  on  earth  ivould  want  to  believe  that  dreadful  sort 
of  thing  if  they  could  help  it?  Papa  might  not  mind,  be- 
cause as  long  as  he  knew  that  he  and  Mamma  would  get 
into  heaven  all  right  he  wouldn't  worry  so  much  about  other 
people.  But  Mamma  was  always  worn,- ing  about  them  and 
making  you  give  up  things  to  them ;  and  she  must  be  miser- 
able when  she  thought  of  them  burning  in  hell  for  ever  and 
ever,  and  when  she  tried  to  reconcile  God's  justice  with  his 
mercy.  To  say  nothing  of  the  intellectual  discomfort  she 
was  living  in.  When  you  had  found  out  the  real,  happy 
truth  about  God,  it  didn't  seem  right  to  keep  it  to  yourself. 

She  decided  that  she  would  tell  her  mother. 

Mark  was  in  the  Royal  Field  Artillery  now.  He  was 
away  at  Shoeburyness.  If  she  put  it  off  till  he  came  home 
again  she  might  never  do  it.  When  Mamma  had  Mark 
with  her  she  would  never  listen  to  anything  you  had  to  say. 

Next  Sunday  was  Epiphany.  Sunday  afternoon  would 
be  a  good  time. 

But  Aunt  Lavvy  came  to  stay  from  Saturday  to  Monday. 
And  it  rained.  All  morning  Mamma  and  Aunt  Lav\'y  sat 
in  the  dining-room,  one  on  each  side  of  the  fireplace.    Aunt 


102  MARY    OLIVIER:     A   LIFE 

Lawy  read  James  Martineau's  Endeavours  After  the  Chris- 
tian Life,  and  Mamma  read  "  The  Pulpit  in  the  Family  " 
out  of  the  Sunday  At  Home.  Somehow  you  couldn't  do  it 
with  Aunt  Lavvy  in  the  room. 

In  the  afternoon  when  she  went  upstairs  to  lie  down  — 
perhaps. 

But  in  the  afternoon  Mamma  dozed  over  the  Sunday  At 
Home.  She  was  so  innocent  and  pretty,  nodding  her  head, 
and  starting  up  suddenly,  and  looking  round  with  a  smile 
that  betrayed  her  real  opinion  of  Sunday.  You  couldn't  do 
it  while  she  dozed. 

Towards  evening  it  rained  again  and  Aunt  Lavvy  went 
off  to  Ilford  for  the  Evening  Service,  by  herself.  Everybody 
else  stayed  at  home,  and  there  was  hymn-singing  instead  of 
church.  Mary  and  her  mother  were  alone  together.  When 
her  mother  had  sung  the  last  hymn,  "  Lead,  Kindly  Light," 
then  she  would  do  it. 

Her  mother  was  singing: 

"  '  Jesu,  Lover  of  my  soul, 
Let  me  to  Thy  bosom  fly, 
While  the  nearer  wa-a-ters  roll, 

While  the  tempest  still  is  high  '  "  — 

She  could  see  the  stiff,  slender  muscles  straining  in  her 
mother's  neck.  The  weak,  plaintive  voice  tore  at  her  heart. 
She  knew  that  her  mother's  voice  was  weak  and  plaintive. 
Its  thin,  sweet  notes  unnerved  her. 

"' Other  refuge  ha-ave  I  none:  | 

Hangs  my  helpless  soul  on  Thee  '  "  —  | 

Helpless  —  Helpless.  Mamma  was  helpless.  It  was  only 
her  love  of  Mark  and  Jesus  that  was  strong.  Something 
would  happen  if  she  told  her  —  something  awful.  She 
could  feel  already  the  chill  of  an  intolerable  separation. 
She  could  give  up  Jesus,  the  lover  of  her  soul,  but  she  could 
not  give  up  her  mother.  She  couldn't  live  separated  from 
Mamma,  from  the  weak,  plaintive  voice  that  tore  at  her. 

She  couldn't  do  it. 


ADOLESCENCE  103 


IV 

Catty's  eyes  twinkled  through  the  banisters.  She  caught 
Mary  coming  downstairs  and  whispered  that  there  was  cold 
boiled  chicken  and  trifle  for  supper,  because  of  Aunt  Lavvy. 

Through  the  door  Mary  could  see  her  father  standing  at 
the  table,  and  the  calm  breasts  of  the  cold  chicken  smoothed 
with  white  sauce  and  decorated  with  beetroot  stars. 

There  was  a  book  beside  Papa's  plate,  the  book  Aunt 
Lavvy  had  been  reading.  She  had  left  it  open  on  the 
drawing-room  table  when  she  went  to  church.  She  was  late 
for  supper  and  they  sat  there  waiting  for  her.  She  came  in, 
slowly  as  usual,  and  looking  at  the  supper  things  as  though 
they  were  not  there.  When  she  caught  sight  of  the  book 
something  went  up  and  flickered  in  her  eyes  —  a  sort  of 
triumph. 

You  couldn't  help  thinking  that  she  had  left  it  lying  about 
on  purpose,  so  that  Papa  should  see  it. 

He  stood  waiting  till  she  had  sat  down.  He  handed  the 
book  to  her.     His  eyes  gleamed. 

"  When  you  come  here,"  he  said,  "  you  will  be  good 
enough  to  leave  James  Martineau  behind  you." 

Mamma  looked  up,  startled.  ''  You  don't  mean  to  say 
you've  brought  that  man's  books  into  the  house?  " 

''  You  can  see  for  yourself,  Caroline,"  said  Aunt  Lawy, 

"  I  don't  want  to  see.  No,  Mary,  it  has  nothing  to  do 
with  you." 

Mamma  was  smiling  nervously.  You  would  have  sup- 
posed that  she  thought  James  Martineau  funny,  but  the 
least  bit  improper. 

"  But  look.  Mamma,  it's  his  Endeavours  After  the  Chris- 
tian Life." 

Her  mother  took  up  the  book  and  put  it  down  as  if  it 
had  bitten  her. 

"Christian  Life,  indeed!  What  right  has  James  Mar- 
tineau to  call  himself  a  Christian?  When  he  denies  Christ 
—  the  Lord  who  bought  him!  And  makes  no  secret  of  it. 
How  can  you  respect  an  infidel  who  uses  Christ's  name  to 
cover  up  his  blasphemy?  " 

Aunt  Lavvy  was  smiling  now. 


104  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  I  thought  you  said  he  made  no  secret  of  it?  " 

Mamma  said,  "  You  know  very  well  what  I  mean." 

"  If  you  knew  Dr.  Martineau  —  " 

"  You've  no  business  to  know  him,"  Erailius  said,  "  when 
your  brother  Victor  and  I  disapprove  of  him." 

Emilius  was  carving  chicken.  He  had  an  air  of  kindly, 
luscious  hospitality,  hesitating  between  the  two  flawless 
breasts. 

"  Dr.  Martineau  is  the  wisest  and  holiest  man  I  ever 
knew,"  said  Aunt  Lavvy. 

"  I  daresay  your  sister  Charlotte  thinks  Mr.  Marriott  the 
wisest  and  the  holiest  man  she  ever  knew." 

He  settled  the  larger  breast  on  Aunt  Lawy's  plate  and 
laid  on  it  one  perfect  star  of  beetroot.  He  could  do  that 
while  he  insulted  her. 

"  Oh  —  Papa  —  you  are  a  br  —  " 

Aunt  Lawy  shook  her  gentle  head. 

"  Lavinia  dear  "  (Mamma's  voice  was  gentle),  "  did  you 
have  a  nice  service?  " 

"  Very  nice,  thank  you." 

"  Did  you  go  to  Saint  Mary's,  or  the  Parish  church?  " 

Aunt  Lavvy's  straight,  flat  chin  trembled  slightly.  Her 
pale  eyes  lightened.     "  I  went  to  neither." 

"Then  —  where  did  you  go?" 

"  If  you  insist  on  knowing,  Caroline,  I  went  to  Mr.  Rob- 
son's  church." 

"  You  went  to  Mr.  —  to  the  Unitarian  Chapel?  " 

"  To  the  Unitarian  Chapel." 

"  Emilius  —  "  You  would  have  thought  that  Aimt  Lawy 
had  hit  Mamma  and  hurt  her. 

Emilius  took  up  his  table  napkin  and  wiped  his  moustache 
carefully.     He  was  quite  horribly  calm. 

"  You  will  oblige  me  by  not  going  there  again,"  he  said. 

"  You  forget  that  I  went  every  Sunday  when  we  were  in 
Liverpool." 

"  You  forget  that  is  the  reason  why  you  left  Liverpool." 

"  Only  one  of  the  reasons,  I  think." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  what  reason  you  have  for  going  now? 
Beyond  your  desire  to  make  yourself  different  from  other 
people." 


ADOLESCENCE  105 

« 

"  Aren't  Unitarians  other  people?  " 

She  poured  out  a  glass  of  water  and  drank.  She  was 
giving  herself  time. 

"  My  reason,"  she  said,  "  is  that  I  have  joined  the  Uni- 
tarian Church." 

Mamma  put  down  her  knife  and  fork.  Her  lips  opened 
and  her  face  turned  suddenly  sharp  and  sallow  as  if  she 
were  going  to  faint. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  gone  over?  Then  God 
help  poor  Charlotte!  " 

Emilius  steadied  himself  to  speak,  "  Does  Victor  know?  " 
he  said. 

"  Yes.     He  knows." 

"  You  have  consulted  him,  and  you  have  not  consulted 
me?" 

"  You  made  me  promise  not  to  talk  about  it.  I  have 
kept  my  promise." 

Mary  was  sure  then  that  Aunt  Lavvy  had  left  the  book 
open  on  purpose.  She  had  laid  a  trap  for  Emilius,  and  he 
had  fallen  into  it. 

"  If  you  will  hold  infamous  opinions  you  must  be  made  to 
keep  them  to  yourself." 

"  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  my  opinions." 

"  You  have  no  right  to  make  an  open  profession  of  them." 

"  The  law  is  more  tolerant  than  you,  Emilius." 

"  There  is  a  moral  law  and  a  law  of  honour.  You  are 
not  living  by  yourself.  As  long  as  you  are  in  Victor's  house 
the  least  you  can  do  is  to  avoid  giving  offence.  Have  you 
no  consideration  for  your  family?  You  say  you  came  here 
to  be  near  us.  Have  you  thought  of  us?  Have  you  thought 
of  the  children?  Do  you  expect  Caroline  to  go  to  Victor's 
house  if  she's  to  meet  the  Unitarian  minister  and  his  wife?  " 

"  You  will  be  cutting  yourself  off  completely,  Lavinia," 
Mamma  said. 

"  From  what?  " 

"  From  everybody.  People  don't  call  on  Nonconformists. 
If  there  were  no  higher  grounds  —  " 

"  Oh  —  Caroline  —  "  Aunt  Lavvy  breathed  it  on  a  long 
sigh. 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you.  But  you  might  think  of  your 
sister  Charlotte,"  Mamma  said. 


106  MARY   OLIVIER:    A    LIFE 

Papa's  beard  jerked.  He  drew  in  his  breath  with  a  sav- 
age guttural  noise.    "  A-ach!   What's  the  good  of  talking?  " 

He  had  gone  on  eating  all  the  time.  There  was  a  great 
pile  of  chicken  bones  on  his  plate. 

Aunt  Lavvy  turned.  "  Emilius  —  for  thirty-three  years  " 
—  her  voice  broke  as  she  quivered  under  her  loaded  anguish 
— "  for  thirty-three  years  you've  shouted  me  down.  You 
haven't  let  me  call  my  soul  my  own.    Yet  it  is  my  own  —  " 

"  There,  please  —  please,"  Mamma  said,  "  don't  let  us 
have  any  more  of  it,"  just  as  Aunt  Lavvy  was  beginning 
to  get  a  word  in  edgeways. 

"  Mamma,  that  isn't  fair,  you  must  let  her  speak." 

"  Yes.  You  must  let  me  speak."  Aunt  Lawy's  voice 
thickened  in  her  throat. 

"  I  won't  have  any  discussion  of  Unitarianism  here,"  said 
Papa. 

"  It's  you  who  have  been  discussing  it,  not  I." 

"  It  is,  really.  Papa.     First  you  began.     Then  Mamma." 

Mamma  said,  "  If  you've  finished  your  supper,  Mary,  you 
can  go." 

"  But  I  haven't.    I've  not  had  any  trifle  yet." 

She  thought:  ''They  don't  want  me  to  hear  them;  but 
I've  a  right  to  sit  here  and  eat  trifle.  They  know  they  can't 
turn  me  out.     I  haven't  done  anything." 

Aunt  Lawy  went  on.  "  I've  only  one  thing  to  say, 
Emilius.  You've  asked  me  to  think  of  Victor  and  Char- 
lotte, and  you  and  Caroline  and  the  boys  and  Mary.  Have 
you  once  —  in  thirty-three  years  —  for  a  single  minute  — 
thought  of  me?  " 

"  Certainly  I  have.  It's  partly  for  your  own  sake  I  object 
to  your  disgracing  yourself.  As  if  your  sister  Charlotte 
wasn't  disgrace  enough." 

Aunt  Lavvy  drew  herself  up  stiff  and  straight  in  her 
white  shawl  like  a  martyr  in  her  flame.  ''  You  might  keep 
Charlotte  out  of  it,  I  think." 

"  I  might.     Charlotte  can't  help  herself.    You  can." 

At  this  point  Mamma  burst  into  tears  and  left  the  room.. 

"  Now,"  he  said,  "  I  hope  you're  satisfied." 

Mary  answered  him. 

"  I  think  you  ought  to  be,  Papa,  if  you've  been  bullying 


ADOLESCENCE  107 

Aunt  Lawy  for  thirty-three  years.    Don't  you  think  it's 
about  time  you  stopped?" 

Emilius  stared  at  his  daughter.     His  face  flushed  slowly. 
"  I  think,"  he  said,  "  it's  time  you  went  to  bed." 
"  It  isn't  my  bed-time  for  another  hour  yet." 
(A    low    murmur    from    Aunt    Lawy:    "Don't,    Mary, 
don't.") 

She  went  on.  "  It  was  you  who  made  Mamma  cry,  not 
Aunt  Lavvy.  It  always  frightens  her  when  you  shout  at 
people.  You  know  Aunt  Lavvy's  a  perfect  saint,  besides 
being  lots  cleverer  than  anybody  in  this  house,  except  Mark. 
You  get  her  by  herself  when  she's  tired  out  with  Aunt  Char- 
lotte. You  insult  her  religion.  You  say  the  beastliest 
things  you  can  think  of  —  " 

Her  father  pushed  back  his  chair;  they  rose  and  looked 
at  each  other. 

"  You  wouldn't  dare  to  do  it  if  Mark  was  here!  " 
He  strode  to  the  door  and  opened  it.     His  arm  made  a 
crescent  gesture  that  cleared  space  of  her. 
"  Go!     Go  upstairs.    Go  to  bed!  " 
"  I  don't  care  where  I  go  now  I've  said  it." 
Upstairs  in  her  bed  she  still  heard  Aunt  Lawy's  breaking 
voice : 

"  For  thirty-three  years  —  for  thirty-three  years  —  " 
The  scene  rose  again  and  swam  before  her  and  fell  to 
pieces.  Ideas  —  echoes  —  images.  Religion  —  the  truth  of 
God.  Her  father's  voice  booming  over  the  table.  Aunt 
Lavvy's  voice,  breaking  —  breaking.  A  pile  of  stripped 
chicken  bones  on  her  father's  plate. 


Aunt  Lawy  was  getting  ready  to  go  away.  She  held  up 
her  night  gown  to  her  chin,  smoothing  and  folding  back  the 
sleeves.  You  thought  of  her  going  to  bed  in  the  ugly,  yel- 
low, flannel  night  gown,  not  caring,  lying  in  bed  and  thinking 
about  God. 

Mary  was  sorry  that  Aunt  Lavvy  was  going.  As  long  as 
she  was  there  you  felt  that  if  only  she  would  talk  every- 
thing would  at  once  become  more  interesting.    She  thrilled 


108  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

you  with  that  look  of  having  something  —  something  that 
she  wouldn't  talk  about  —  up  her  sleeve.  The  Encyclo- 
psedia  man  said  that  Unitarianism  was  a  kind  of  Pan- 
theism. Perhaps  that  was  it.  Perhaps  she  knew  the  truth 
about  God.  Aunt  Lavvy  would  know  whether  she  ought 
to  tell  her  mother. 

"  Aunt  Lavvy,  if  you  loved  somebody  and  you  found  out 
that  their  religion  wasn't  true,  would  you  tell  them  or 
wouldn't  you?  " 

"  It  would  depend  on  whether  they  were  happy  in  their 
religion  or  not." 

"  Supposing  you'd  found  out  one  that  was  more  true  and 
much  more  beautiful,  and  you  thought  it  would  make  them 
happier?  " 

Aunt  Lavvy  raised  her  long,  stubborn  chin.  In  her  face 
there  was  a  cold  exaltation  and  a  sudden  hardness. 

"  No  religion  was  ever  more  true  or  more  beautiful  than 
Christianity,"  she  said. 

"  There's  Pantheism.  Aren't  Unitarians  a  kind  of  Pan- 
theists? " 

Aunt  Lavvy's  white  face  flushed.  "  Unitarians  Panthe- 
ists?   Who's  been  talking  to  you  about  Pantheism?  " 

"  Nobody.    Nobody  knows  about  it.    I  had  to  find  out." 

"  The  less  you  find  out  about  it  the  better." 

"  Aunt  Lavvy,  you're  talking  like  Mr.  Propart.  Sup- 
posing I  honestly  think  Pantheism's  true?  " 

"  You've  no  right  to  think  anything  about  it,"  Aunt  Lavvy 
said. 

"  Now  you're  talking  like  Papa.  And  I  did  so  hope  you 
wouldn't." 

"  I  only  meant  that  it  takes  more  time  than  you've  lived 
to  find  out  what  honest  thinking  is.  When  you're  twenty 
years  older  you'll  know  what  this  opinion  of  yours  is  worth." 

"  I  know  what  it's  worth  to  me,  now,  this  minute." 

"  Is  it  worth  making  your  mother  miserable?  " 

"  That's  what  Mark  would  say.  How  did  you  know  I  was 
thinking  of  Mamma?  " 

"  Because  that's  what  my  brother  Victor  said  to  me." 


ADOLESCENCE  109 


VI 

The  queer  thing  was  that  none  of  them  seemed  to  think 
the  truth  could  possibly  matter  on  its  own  account,  or  that 
anything  mattered  besides  being  happy  or  miserable.  Yet 
everybody,  except  Aunt  Lavvy,  was  determined  that  every- 
body else  should  be  happy  in  their  way  by  believing  what 
they  believed;  and  when  it  came  to  Pantheism  even  Aunt 
La\^y  couldn't  live  and  let  live.  You  could  see  that  deep 
down  inside  her  it  made  her  more  furious  than  Unitarianism 
made  Papa. 

Mary  saw  that  she  was  likely  to  be  alone  in  her  adven- 
ture. It  appeared  to  her  more  than  ever  as  a  journey  into 
a  beautiful,  quiet  yet  exciting  country  where  you  could  go 
on  and  on.  The  mere  pleasure  of  being  able  to  move  en- 
chanted her.  But  nobody  would  go  with  her.  Nobody 
knew.    Nobody  cared. 

There  was  Spinoza;  but  Spinoza  had  been  dead  for  ages. 
Now  she  came  to  think  of  it  she  had  never  heard  anybody, 
not  even  Mr.  Propart,  speak  of  Spinoza.  It  would  be  worse 
for  her  than  it  had  ever  been  for  Aunt  Lavvy  who  had 
actually  known  Dr.  Martineau.  Dr.  Martineau  was  not 
dead;  and  if  he  had  been  there  were  still  lots  of  Unitarian 
ministers  alive  all  over  England.  And  in  the  end  Aunt 
Lavvy  had  broken  loose  and  gone  into  her  Unitarian  Chapel. 

She  thought:  "  Not  till  after  Grandmamma  was  dead. 
Till  years  after  Grandmamma  was  dead." 

She  thought:  "  Of  course  I'd  die  rather  than  tell  Mamma." 

VII 

Aunt  Lavvy  had  gone.  Mr.  Parish  had  taken  her  away 
in  his  wagonette. 

At  lessons  Mamma  complained  that  you  were  not  attend- 
ing. But  she  was  not  attending  herself,  and  when  sewing 
time  came  she  showed  what  she  had  been  thinking  about. 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  Aunt  Lavvy's  room  this 
morning?  " 

She  looked  up  sharply  over  the  socks  piled  before  her  for 
darning. 


110  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Only  talking." 

"  Was  Aunt  Lavvy  talking  to  you  about  her  opinions?  " 

"  No,  Mamma." 

"  Has  she  ever  talked  to  you?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  She  wouldn't  if  she  promised  not  to.  I 
don't  know  even  now  what  Unitarianism  is.  .  .  .  What  do 
Unitarians  believe  in?  " 

"  Goodness  knows,"  her  mother  said.  "  Nothing  that's 
any  good  to  them,  you  may  be  sure." 

Mary  went  on  darning.  The  coarse  wool  of  the  socks 
irritated  her  fingers.  It  caught  in  a  split  nail,  setting  her 
teeth  on  edge. 

If  you  went  on  darning  for  ever  —  if  you  went  on  darn- 
ing—  Mamma  would  be  pleased.  She  had  not  suspected 
anything. 

VIII 

"  '  Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies, 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made, 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes. 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange.'  " 

Between  the  lovely  lines  she  could  hear  Mamma  say, 
"  They  all  scamp  their  work.  You  would  require  a  resident 
carpenter  and  a  resident  glazier  —  " 

And  Mrs.  Farmer's  soft  drawl  spinning  out  the  theme: 
"  And  a  resident  plumber.  Yes,  Mrs.  Olivier,  you  really 
wou-ould." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Farmer  had  called  and  stayed  to  tea. 
Across  the  room  you  could  see  his  close,  hatchet  nose  and 
straggly  beard.  Every  now  and  then  his  small,  greenish 
eyes  lifted  and  looked  at  you. 

Impossible  that  you  had  ever  enjoyed  going  to  Mrs. 
Farmer's  to  see  the  baby.  It  was  like  something  that  had 
happened  to  somebody  else,  a  long  time  ago.  Mrs.  Farmer 
was  always  having  babies,  and  always  asking  you  to  go  and 
see  them.  She  couldn't  understand  that  as  you  grew  older 
you  left  off  caring  about  babies. 


ADOLESCENCE  111 

"  *  —  We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of  — '  " 

"  The  Bishop  —  Confirmation  —  opportunity." 
Even  Mamma  owned  that  Mr.  Farmer  never  knew  when 
it  was  time  to  go. 

"  '  As  dreams  are  made  of,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep  —  '  " 

The  universe  is  nothing  but  the  spectacle  of  the  dreams 
of  God.     Or  was  it  the  thoughts  of  God? 

"  Confirmation  —  Parish  Church  —  Bishop  —  " 

Confirmation.  She  had  seen  a  Confirmation  once,  years 
ago.  Girls  in  white  dresses  and  long  white  veils,  like  brides, 
shining  behind  the  square  black  windows  of  the  broughams. 
Dora  and  Effie  Draper.  EflEie  leaned  forward.  Her  pretty, 
piercing  face  looked  out  through  the  black  pane,  not  seeing 
anything,  trying  greedily  to  be  seen.  Big  boys  and  girls 
knelt  down  in  rows  before  the  Bishop,  and  his  sleeves  went 
flapping  up  and  down  over  them  like  bolsters  in  the  wind. 

Mr.  Farmer  was  looking  at  her  again,  as  if  he  had  an 
idea  in  his  head. 

IX 

The  Church  Service  was  open  at  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles. 
Mamma  had  pushed  Dr.  Smith's  "  History  of  England  " 
away. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "  you  could  say  the  Catechism 
and  the  Athanasian  Creed  straight  through  without  stop- 
ping? " 

"  I  daresay  I  could  if  I  tried.    Why?  " 

"  Because  Mr.  Farmer  will  want  to  examine  you." 

"  Whatever  for?  " 

"  Because,"  her  mother  said,  "  there's  going  to  be  a  Con- 
firmation. It's  time  you  were  thinking  about  being  con- 
firmed." 

"Confirmed?    Me?" 

"  And  why  not  you?  " 

"  Well  —  I  haven't  got  to  be,  have  I?  " 


112  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  You  will  have,  sooner  or  later.  So  you  may  as  well 
begin  to  think  about  it  now." 

Confirmation.  She  had  never  thought  about  it  as  a  real 
thing  that  might  happen  to  her,  that  would  happen,  sooner 
or  later,  if  she  didn't  do  something  to  stop  Mr.  Farmer  and 
Mamma. 

"  I  am  thinking.     I'm  thinking  tight." 

Tight.  Tight.  Her  mind,  in  agony,  pinned  itself  to  one 
point:  how  she  could  stop  her  mother  without  telling  her. 

Beyond  that  point  she  couldn't  see  clearly. 

"  You  see  —  you  see  —  I  don't  want  to  be  confirmed." 

"  You  don't  want?  You  might  as  well  say  you  didn't 
want  to  be  a  Christian." 

"  Don't  worry,  Mamma  darling.  I  only  want  to  stay  as 
I  am." 

"  I  must  worry.  I'm  responsible  for  you  as  long  as  you're 
not  confirmed.  You  forget  that  I'm  your  godmother  as 
well  as  your  mother." 

She  had  forgotten  it.  And  Papa  and  Uncle  Victor  were 
her  godfathers.  "  What  did  your  godfathers  and  god- 
mothers then  for  you?  —  They  did  promise  and  vow  three 
things  in  my  name  —  "  they  had  actually  done  it.  "  First: 
that  I  should  renounce  "  —  renounce  —  renounce  —  "  Sec- 
ondlj' :  that  I  should  believe  all  the  Articles  of  the  Christian 
Faitii  —  " 

The  Christian  Faith  — the  Catholic  Faith.  "Which 
Faith  except  everyone  do  keep  whole  and  undefiled,  without 
doubt  he  shall  perish  everlastingly  "  — 

— "  And  the  Catholic  Faith  is  this:  That  we  worship  one 
God  in  Trinity  and  Trinity  in  Unity." 

They  had  promised  and  vowed  all  that.  In  her  name. 
What  right  had  they?    What  right  had  they? 

"  You're  not  a  baby  any  more,"  her  mother  said. 

"  That's  what  I  mean.  I  was  a  baby  when  you  went  and 
did  it.  I  knew  nothing  about  it.  You  can't  make  me 
responsible." 

"  It's  we  who  are  responsible,"  her  mother  said. 

"  I  mean  for  your  vows  and  promises,  Mamma  darling. 
If  you'll  let  me  off  my  responsibility  I'll  let  you  off  yours." 

"  Now,"  her  mother  said,  "  you're  prevaricating." 


ADOLESCENCE  113 

"  That  means  you'll  never  let  mc  off.  If  I  don't  do  it  now 
I'll  have  to  do  it  next  year,  or  the  next?  " 

"  You  may  feel  more  seriously  about  it  next  year.  Or 
next  week,"  her  mother  said.  "  Meanwhile  you'll  learn  the 
Thirty-Nine  Articles.    Read  them  through  first." 

"  — '  Nine.  Of  Original  or  Birth-sin.  Original  Sin  .  .  , 
is  the  fault  and  corruption  of  the  Nature  of  every  man 
.  .  .  whereby  man  is  far  gone  from  original  righteousness 
and  is  of  his  own  nature  inclined  to  evil,  so  that  the  flesh 
lusteth  always  contrary  to  the  spirit;  and  therefore  in  every 
person  born  into  this  world  it  deserveth  God's  wrath  and 
damnation.'  " 

"  Don't  look  like  that,"  her  mother  said,  "  as  if  your  wits 
were  wool-gathering." 

"Wool?"  She  could  see  herself  smiling  at  her  mother, 
disagreeably. 

Wool-gathering.  Gathering  wool.  The  room  was  full  of 
wool;  wool  flying  about;  hanging  in  the  air  and  choking 
you.  Clogging  your  mind.  Old  grey  wool  out  of  pew 
cushions  that  people  had  sat  on  for  centuries,  full  of 
dirt. 

Wool,  spun  out,  wound  round  you,  woven  in  a  net.  You 
were  tangled  and  strangled  in  a  net  of  imclean  wool.  They 
caught  you  in  it  when  you  were  a  baby  a  month  old. 
Mamma,  Papa  and  Uncle  Victor.  You  would  have  to  cut 
and  tug  and  kick  and  fight  your  way  out.  They  were 
caught  in  it  themselves,  they  couldn't  get  out.  They  didn't 
want  to  get  out.  The  wool  stopped  their  minds  working. 
They  hated  it  when  their  minds  worked,  when  anybody's 
mind  worked.    Aunt  Lavvy's  —  yours. 

"  '  Thirteen.  Of  Works  before  Justification.  Works  done 
before  the  grace  of  Christ,  and  the  Inspiration  of  His  Spirit, 
are  not  pleasant  to  God,  forasmuch  as  they  spring  not  of 
faith  in  Jesus  Christ  .  .  .  :  yea,  rather,  for  that  they  are 
not  done  as  God  hath  willed  and  commanded  them  to  be 
done,  we  doubt  not  but  they  have  the  nature  of  sin.'  " 

"  Do  you  really  believe  that,  Mamma?  " 

"  Of  course  I  believe  it.  All  our  righteousness  is  filthy 
rags." 

—  People's    goodness.     People's    kindness.     The    sweet, 


114  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

beautiful  things  they  did  for  each  other.  The  brave,  noble 
things,  the  things  Mark  did:  filthy  rags. 

This  —  this  religion  of  theirs  —  was  filthy ;  ugly,  like  the 
shiny  black  covers  of  their  Bibles  where  their  fingers  left  a 
grey,  greasy  smear.  Filthy  and  frightful;  like  funerals. 
You  might  as  well  be  buried  alive,  five  coffins  deep  in  a  pit 
of  yellow  clay. 

Mamma  couldn't  really  believe  it.  You  would  have  to 
tell  her  it  wasn't  true.  Not  telling  her  meant  that  you 
didn't  think  she  cared  about  the  truth.  You  insulted  her  if 
you  supposed  she  didn't  care.  Mark  would  say  you  insulted 
her.  Even  if  it  hurt  her  a  bit  at  first,  you  insulted  her  if 
you  thought  she  couldn't  bear  it.  And  afterwards  she  would 
be  happy,  because  she  would  be  free. 

"  It's  no  use,  Mamma.  I  shan't  ever  want  to  be  con- 
firmed." 

"  Want  —  want  —  want!  You  ought  to  want,  then.  You 
say  you  believe  the  Christian  Faith  —  " 

Now  —  now.  A  clean  quick  cut.  No  jagged  ends  hanging. 

"  That's  it.     I  don't  believe  a  single  word  of  it." 

She  couldn't  look  at  her  mother.  She  didn't  want  to  see 
her  cry. 

"  You've  found  that  out,  have  you?  You've  been  mighty 
quick  about  it." 

"  I  found  it  out  ages  ago.     But  I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you." 

Her  mother  was  not  crying. 

"  You  needn't  tell  me  now,"  she  said.  "  You  don't  sup- 
pose I'm  going  to  believe  it?  " 

Not  crying.  Smiling.  A  sort  of  cunning  and  triumphant 
smile. 

"  You  just  want  an  excuse  for  not  learning  those  Thirty- 
Nine  Articles." 

XIV 

I 

Mamma  was  crying. 

Papa  had  left  the  dining-room.  Mary  sat  at  the  foot  of 
the  table,  and  her  mother  at  the  head.  The  space  between 
was  covered  and  piled  with  Mark's  kit:   the  socks,  the 


ADOLESCENCE  115 

pocket-handkerchiefs,  the  vests,  the  fine  white  pyjamas. 
The  hanging  white  globes  of  the  gaselier  shone  on  them. 
All  day  Mary  had  been  writing  "  M.  E.  Olivier,  M.  E. 
Olivier,"  in  clear,  hard  letters,  like  print.  The  iridescent 
ink  was  grey  on  the  white  linen  and  lawn,  black  when  you 
stamped  with  the  hot  iron:  M.  E.  Olivier.  Mamma  was 
embroidering  M.  E.  O.  in  crimson  silk  on  a  black  sock. 

Mark  was  in  the  Army  now ;  in  the  Royal  Field  Artillery. 
He  was  going  to  India.  In  two  weeks,  before  the  middle  of 
April,  he  would  be  gone.  They  had  known  this  so  long  that 
now  and  then  they  could  forget  it;  they  could  be  glad  that 
Mark  should  have  all  those  things,  so  many  more,  and  more 
beautiful,  than  he  had  ever  had.  They  were  appeased  with 
their  labour  of  forming,  over  and  over  again,  the  letters, 
clear  and  perfect,  of  his  name. 

Then  Papa  had  come  in  and  said  that  Dan  was  not  going 
to  live  at  home  any  more.  He  had  taken  rooms  in  Blooms- 
bury  with  young  Vickers. 

Dan  had  not  gone  to  Cambridge  when  he  left  Chelmsted, 
as  Mamma  had  intended.    There  hadn't  been  enough  money. 

Uncle  Victor  had  paid  for  Mark's  last  year  at  Woolwich 
and  for  his  outfit  now.  Some  day  Mamma  would  pay  him 
back  again. 

Dan  had  gone  first  into  Papa's  ofiice;  then  into  Uncle 
Edward's  ofiice.  He  was  in  Uncle  Victor's  office  now. 
Sometimes  he  didn't  get  home  till  after  midnight.  Some- 
times when  you  went  into  his  room  to  call  him  in  the  morn- 
ing he  wasn't  there;  but  there  were  the  bed-clothes  turned 
down  as  Catty  had  left  them,  with  his  nightshirt  folded  on 
the  top. 

Her  mother  said:  "I  hope  you're  content  now  you've 
finished  your  work." 

"  My  work?  "  her  father  said. 

"  Yes,  yours.  You  couldn't  rest  till  you'd  got  the  poor 
boy  out  of  your  office,  and  now  you've  turned  him  out  of 
the  house.  I  suppose  you  thought  that  with  Mark  going 
you'd  better  make  a  clean  sweep.     It'll  be  Roddy  next." 

"  I  didn't  turn  him  out  of  the  house.  But  it  was  about 
time  he  went.  The  young  cub's  temper  is  getting  un- 
bearable." 


116  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  I  daresay.  You  ruined  Dan's  temper  with  your  silly 
tease  —  tease  —  tease  —  from  morning  till  night.  You 
can't  see  a  dog  without  wanting  to  make  it  snap  and  snarl. 
It  was  the  same  with  all  the  children.  And  when  they 
turned  you  bullied  them.  Just  because  you  couldn't  break 
Mark's  spirit  you  tried  to  crush  Dan's.  It's  a  wonder  he 
has  any  temper  left." 

Emilius  stroked  his  beard. 

"  That's  right.  Stroke  your  beard  as  if  nothing  mattered 
but  your  pleasure.  You'll  be  happy  enough  when  Mark's 
gone." 

Emilius  left  off  stroking  his  beard. 

"  You  say  I  turned  him  out  of  the  ofl&ce,"  he  said.  "  Did 
he  stay  with  Edward?  " 

"  Nobody  could  stay  with  Edward.  You  couldn't  your- 
self." 

"  Ask  Victor  how  long  he  thinks  he'll  keep  him." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Emilius?  " 

He  didn't  answer.  He  stood  there,  his  lips  pouting  be- 
tween his  moustache  and  beard,  his  eyes  smiling  wickedly, 
as  if  he  had  just  found  out  he  could  torment  her  more  by 
not  saying  what  he  meant. 

*'  If  Dan  went  to  the  bad,"  she  said,  "  I  wouldn't  blame 
him.     It  would  serve  you  right. 

"  Unless,"  she  added,  "  that's  what  you  want." 

And  she  began  to  cry. 

She  cried  as  a  child  cries,  with  spasms  of  sobbing,  her 
pretty  mouth  spoiled,  stretched  wide,  working,  like  india- 
rubber;  dull  red  blotches  creeping  up  to  the  brown  stains 
about  her  eyes.  Her  tears  splashed  on  to  the  fine,  black 
silk  web  of  the  sock  and  sparkled  there. 

Emilius  had  gone  from  the  room,  leaving  the  door  open. 
Mary  got  up  and  shut  it.  She  stood,  hesitating.  The  help- 
less sobbing  drew  her,  frightened  her,  stirred  her  to  exas- 
peration that  was  helpless  too.  Her  mother  had  never  been 
more  intolerably  dear. 

She  went  to  her.     She  put  her  arm  round  her. 

"  Don't,  Mamma  darling.  Why  do  you  let  him  torture 
you?  He  didn't  turn  Dan  out  of  the  office.  He  let  him  go 
because  he  can't  afford  to  pay  him  enough." 


ADOLESCENCE  117 

"  I  know  that  as  well  as  you,"  her  mother  said  surpris- 
ingly. 

She  drew  herself  from  the  protecting  arm. 

"  Well,  then  —  But,  oh,  what  a  brute  he  is.  What  a 
brute!" 

"  For  shame  to  talk  that  way  of  your  father.  You've 
no  right.     You're  the  one  that  always  goes  scot-free." 

And,  beginning  to  cry  again,  she  rose  and  went  out, 
grasping  Mark's  sock  in  her  convulsive  hand. 

"  Mary,  did  you  hear  your  mother  say  I  bullied  you?  " 

Her  father  had  come  back  into  the  room. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  Have  I  ever  bullied  you?  " 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"  No.  You  would  have  done  if  Mamma  had  loved  me  as 
much  as  she  loves  Mark.  I  wish  you  had.  I  wish  you'd 
bullied  the  life  out  of  me.  I  shouldn't  have  cared.  I  wish 
you'd  hated  me.     Then  I  should  have  known  she  loved  me." 

He  looked  at  her  in  silence,  with  round,  startled  eyes. 
He  understood. 

n 

"  Ubique  —  " 

The  gunner's  motto.  Mark's  motto,  stamped  on  all  the 
letters  he  would  write.  A  blue  gun  on  a  blue  gun-carriage, 
the  muzzle  pointing  to  the  left.  The  motto  waving  under- 
neath:  "  UBIQUE." 

At  soldiers'  funerals  the  coffin  was  carried  on  a  gun- 
carriage  and  covered  with  a  flag. 
_  "  Ubique  quo  fas  et  gloria  ducunt."    All  through  the  ex- 
citement of  the  evening  it  went  on  sounding  in  her  head. 

It  was  Mark's  coming  of  age  party  in  the  week  before 
he  went.  The  first  time  she  could  remember  being  im- 
portant at  a  party.  Her  consciousness  of  being  important 
was  intense,  exquisite.  She  was  Sub-Lieutenant  Mark 
Olivier's  sister.     His  only  one. 

And,  besides,  she  looked  nice. 

Last  year's  white  muslin,  ironed  out,  looked  as  good  as 
new.  The  blue  sash  really  was  new;  and  Mamma  had  lent 
her  one  of  her  necklets,  a  turquoise  heart  on  a  thin  gold 


118  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

chain.  In  the  looking-glass  she  could  see  her  eyes  shining 
under  her  square  brown  fringe:  spots  of  gold  darting  through 
brown  crystal.  Her  brown  hair  shone  red  on  the  top  and 
gold  underneath.  The  side  pieces,  rolled  above  her  ears 
and  plaited  behind,  made  a  fillet  for  her  back  hair.  Her 
back  hair  was  too  short.  She  tried  to  make  it  reach  to  her 
waist  by  pulling  the  curled  tips  straight;  but  they  only 
sprang  back  to  her  shoulder-blades  again.  It  was  unfor- 
tunate. 

Catty,  securing  the  wonderful  fillet  with  a  blue  ribbon 
told  her  not  to  be  unhappy.     She  would  "  do." 

Mamma  was  beautiful  in  her  lavender-grey  silk  and  her 
black  jet  cross  with  the  diamond  star.  They  all  had  to 
stand  together,  a  little  behind  her,  near  the  door,  and  shake 
hands  with  the  people  as  they  came  in.  Mary  was  sur- 
prised that  they  should  shake  hands  with  her  before  they 
shook  hands  with  Mark;  it  didn't  seem  right,  somehow, 
when  it  was  his  birthday. 

Everybody  had  come  except  Aunt  Charlotte;  even  Mr. 
Marriott,  though  he  was  supposed  to  be  afraid  of  parties. 
(You  couldn't  ask  Aunt  Charlotte  because  of  Mr.  Marriott.) 
There  were  the  two  Manistys,  looking  taller  and  leaner  than 
ever.  And  there  was  Mrs.  Draper  with  Dora  and  Effie. 
Mrs.  Draper,  black  hawk's  eyes  in  purple  rings;  white 
powder  over  crushed  carmines;  a  black  wing  of  hair  folded 
over  grey  down.  Effie's  pretty,  piercing  face;  small  head 
poised  to  strike.  Dora,  a  young  likeness  of  Mrs.  Draper, 
an  old  likeness  of  Effie,  pretty  when  Effie  wasn't  there. 

When  they  looked  at  you  you  saw  that  your  muslin  was 
not  as  good  as  new.  When  they  looked  at  Mamma  you 
saw  that  her  lavender  silk  was  old-fashioned  and  that 
nobody  wore  black  jet  crosses  now.  You  were  frilly  and 
floppy  when  everybody  else  was  tight  and  straight  in 
Princess  dresses. 

Mamma  was  more  beautiful  than  Mrs.  Draper;  and  her 
hair,  anyhow,  was  in  the  fashion,  parted  at  the  side,  a  soft 
brown  wing  folded  over  her  left  ear. 

But  that  made  her  look  small  and  pathetic  —  a  wounded 
bird.     She  ought  not  to  have  been  made  to  look  like  that. 

You  could  hear  Dora  and  Effie  being  kind  to  Mamma. 


ADOLESCENCE  119 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Olivier  "—  Indulgence  —  Condescension.  As  if 
to  an  unfortunate  and  rather  foolish  person.  Mark  could 
see  that.    He  was  smiling:  a  hard,  angry  smile. 

Mrs.  Draper  was  Mamma's  dearest  friend.  They  could 
sit  and  talk  to  each  other  about  nothing  for  hours  together. 
In  the  holidays  Mrs.  Draper  used  to  be  always  coming  over 
to  talk  to  Mamma,  always  bringing  Dora  and  Efiie  with  her, 
always  asking  Mark  and  Dan  and  Roddy  to  her  house, 
always  wondering  why  Mark  never  went. 

Dan  went.     Dan  seemed  as  if  he  couldn't  keep  away. 

This  year  Mrs.  Draper  had  left  off  asking  Mark  and 
Dan  and  Roddy.  She  had  left  off  bringing  Dora  and  Effie 
with  her. 

Mary  wondered  why  she  had  brought  them  now,  and 
why  her  mother  had  asked  them. 

The  Manistys.  She  had  brought  them  for  the  Manistys. 
She  wanted  Mamma  to  see  what  she  had  brought  them  for. 
And  Mamma  had  asked  them  because  she  didn't  care,  and 
wanted  them  to  see  that  she  didn't  care,  and  that  Mark 
didn't  care  either. 

If  they  only  knew  how  Mark  detested  them  with  their 
"Dear  Mrs.  Olivier"  ! 

Something  was  going  on.  She  heard  Uncle  Victor  saying 
to  Aunt  Lavvy,  "  Mark's  party  is  a  bit  rough  on  Dan." 

Dan  was  trying  to  get  to  Efiie  through  a  gap  in  the  group 
formed  by  the  Manistys  and  two  young  subalterns,  Mark's 
friends.  Each  time  he  did  it  Mrs.  Draper  stopped  him  by 
moving  somehow  so  as  to  fill  the  gap.  He  gave  it  up  at 
last,  to  sit  by  himself  at  the  bottom  of  the  room,  jammed 
into  a  corner  between  the  chimney-piece  and  the  rosewood 
cabinet,  where  he  stared  at  Effie  with  hot,  unhappy  eyes. 

Supper.  Mamma  was  worried  about  the  supper.  She 
would  have  liked  to  have  given  them  a  nicer  one,  but  there 
wasn't  enough  money;  besides,  she  was  afraid  of  what  Uncle 
Victor  would  think  if  they  were  extravagant.  That  was  the 
worst  of  borrowing,  Mark  said;  you  couldn't  spend  so  much 
afterwards.  Still,  there  was  enough  wine  yet  in  the  cellar 
for  fifty  parties.  You  could  see,  now,  some  advantage  in 
Papa's  habit  of  never  drinking  any  but  the  best  wine  and 
laying  in  a  large  stock  of  it  while  he  could. 


120  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mar>^  noticed  that  Papa  and  Dan  drank  the  most.  Per- 
haps Dan  drank  more  than  Papa.  The  smell  of  wine  was 
over  all  the  supper,  spoiling  it,  sending  through  her  nerves 
a  reminiscent  shiver  of  disgust. 

Mark  brought  her  back  into  the  dining-room  for  the  ice 
she  hadn't  had.  Dan  was  there,  by  himself,  sitting  in  the 
place  Effie  had  just  left.  Effie's  glass  had  still  some  wine 
in  it.  You  could  see  him  look  for  the  wet  side  of  the  rim 
and  suck  the  drops  that  had  touched  her  mouth.  Some- 
thing small  and  white  was  on  the  floor  beside  him.  Effie's 
pocket-handkerchief.  He  stooped  for  it.  You  could  hear 
him  breathing  up  the  scent  on  it  with  big,  sighing  sobs. 

They  slunk  back  into  the  drawing-room. 

Mark  asked  her  to  play  something. 

"  Make  a  noise,  Minky.     Perhaps  they'll  go." 

"  The  Hungarian  March."  She  could  play  it  better  than 
Mamma.  Mamma  never  could  see  that  the  bass  might  be 
even  more  important  than  the  treble.  She  was  glad  that 
she  could  play  it  better  than  Mamma,  and  she  hated  herself 
for  being  glad. 

Mark  stood  by  the  piano  and  looked  at  her  as  she  played. 
They  talked  under  cover  of  the  "  Droom  —  Droom  — 
Droom-era-room." 

"  Mark,  am  I  looking  too  awful?  " 

"  No.     Pretty  Minx.     Very  pretty  Minx." 

"  We  mustn't,  Mark.  They'll  hear  us.  They'll  think  us 
idiots." 

"  I  don't  care  if  they  do.  Don't  you  wish  they'd  go? 
Clever  Minx.     Clever  paws." 

Mamma  passed  and  looked  at  them.  Her  face  shrank 
and  sharpened  under  the  dropped  wing  of  her  hair.  She 
must  have  heard  what  Mark  said.  She  hated  it  when  Mark 
talked  and  looked  like  that.  She  hated  it  when  you  played 
her  music. 

Beethoven,  then.  The  "  Sonata  Eroica  "  was  bound  up 
with  ''  Violetta,"  the  "  Guards  "  and  "  Mabel  "  Waltzes  and 
the  "  Pluie  des  Perles." 

"  Ubique  quo  fas  et  gloria  ducunt."  That  was  the  mean- 
ing of  the  noble,  serious,  passionate  music. 

Roddy  called  out,  "  Oh,  not  that  dull  old  thing." 


ADOLESCENCE  121 

No.  Not  that.  There  was  the  Funeral  March  in  it: 
sulle  morte  d'un  eroe.    Mark  was  going  away. 

"  Waldteufel,"  then.  One  —  two  —  three.  One  —  two  — 
three.  Sustained  thrum  in  the  bass.  One  —  two  —  three. 
Thursday  —  Friday  —  One  —  two  —  three.  Saturday  — 
Sunday.  Beat  of  her  thoughts,  beat  of  the  music  in  a  sort 
of  syncopated  time.     One  —  two  —  three,  Monday. 

On  Tuesday  Mark  would  be  gone. 

His  eyes  made  her  break  ofY  to  look  round.  Dan  had 
come  back  into  the  room,  to  his  place  between  the  cabinet 
and  the  chimney-piece.  He  stooped  forward,  his  head 
hanging  as  if  some  weight  dragged  it.  His  eyes,  turned  up, 
staring  at  Efiie,  showed  half  circles  of  blood-shot  white. 
His  face  was  flushed.    A  queer,  leaden  grey  flush. 

Aunt  Lav\7'  sat  beside  him.  She  had  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  to  keep  him  quiet  there  in  his  corner. 

"  Mark  —  what's  the  matter  with  Dan?  " 

One  —  two  —  three.  One  —  two  —  three.  Something 
bumped  against  the  glass  door  of  the  cabinet.  A  light 
tinkling  crash  of  a  broken  pane.  She  could  see  slantwise 
as  she  went  on  playing.  Dan  was  standing  up.  He  swayed, 
feeling  for  the  ledge  of  the  cabinet.  Then  he  started  to 
come  down  the  room,  his  head  lowered,  thrust  forward,  his 
eyes  heavy  with  some  earnest,  sombre  purpose. 

He  seemed  to  be  hours  coming  down  the  room  by  himself. 
Hours  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  holding  on  to  the 
parrot  chair. 

"Mark!" 

"  Go  on  playing." 

He  went  to  him.  Roddy  sprang  up  from  somewhere. 
Hours  while  they  were  getting  Dan  away  from  the  parrot 
chair  to  the  door  beside  the  piano.  Hours  between  the 
opening  and  sudden  slamming  of  the  door. 

But  she  had  not  played  a  dozen  bars.  She  went  on 
playing. 

"  Wait  a  minute,  Effic." 

Effle  was  standing  beside  her  with  her  hand  on  the  door. 

"  I've  lost  my  pocket-handkerchief,  I  must  have  left  it 
in  the  dining-room,  I  know  I  left  it  in  the  dining-room," 
she  said,  fussing. 


122  MARY    OLIVIER:    A    LIFE 

Mary  got  up.     "  All  right.     I'll  fetch  it." 
She  opened  the  door  and  shut  it  again  quickly. 
"  I  can't  go  —  yet." 

m 

Friday,  Saturday  and  Sunday  passed,  each  with  a  sep- 
arate, hurrying  pace  that  quickened  towards  bed-time. 

Mark's  last  night.  She  had  left  her  door  open  so  that 
she  could  hear  him  come  upstairs.  He  came  and  sat  on  her 
bed  as  he  used  to  do  years  ago  when  she  was  afraid  of  the 
ghost  in  the  passage. 

"  I  shan't  be  away  for  ever,  Minky.     Only  five  years." 

"  Yes,  but  you'll  be  twenty-six  then,  and  I  shall  be  nine- 
teen.   We  shan't  be  ourselves." 

"  I  shall  be  my  self.     Five  years  isn't  really  long." 

"  You  —  you'll  like  it,  Mark.  There'll  be  jungles  with 
bisons  and  tigers." 

"  Yes.     Jungles." 

"  And  polo." 

"  Shan't  be  able  to  go  in  for  polo." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Ponies.     Too  expensive." 

They  sat  silent. 

"  What  I  don't  like,"  Mark  said  in  a  sleepy  voice,  "  is 
leaving  Papa." 

"  Papa?  " 

He  really  meant  it.  "  Wish  I'd  been  decenter  to  him," 
he  said. 

And  then:  "  Minky  —  you'll  be  kind  to  little  Mamma." 

''Oh,  Mark  — aren't  I?" 

"  Not  always.  Not  when  you  say  funny  things  about  the 
Bible." 

"  You  say  funny  things  yourself." 

"Yes;  but  she  thinks  I  don't  mean  them,  so  it  doesn't 
matter." 

"  She  thinks  I  don't  mean  them,  either." 

"  Well  —  let  her  go  on  thinking  it.  Do  what  she  wants 
—  even  when  it's  beastly." 

"  It's  all  very  well  for  you.     She  doesn't  want  you  to 


ADOLESCENCE  123 

learn  the  Thirty-Nine  Articles.  What  would  you  do  if  she 
did?  " 

"  Learn  them,  of  course.  Lie  about  them,  if  that  would 
please  her." 

She  thought:  "  Mamma  didn't  want  him  to  be  a  soldier." 

As  if  he  knew  what  she  was  thinking,  he  said,  "  She 
doesn't  really  mind  my  going  into  the  Army.  I  knew  she 
wouldn't.     Besides,  I  had  to." 

"  Yes." 

"  I'll  make  it  up  to  her,"  he  said.  "  I  won't  do  any  other 
thing  she  wouldn't  like.  I  won't  marry.  I  won't  play  polo. 
I'll  live  on  my  pay  and  give  poor  Victor  back  his  money. 
And  there's  one  good  thing  about  it.  Papa'll  be  happier 
when  I'm  not  here." 


IV 

"Mark!" 

"Minky!"_ 

He  had  said  good-night  and  gone  to  his  room  and  come 
back  again  to  hold  her  still  tighter  in  his  arms. 

"  What?  " 

"  Nothing,"  he  said.     "  Only  —  good-night." 

To-morrow  no  lingering  and  no  words.  Mark's  feet  quick 
in  the  passage.  A  door  shut  to,  a  short,  crushing  embrace 
before  he  turned  from  her  to  her  mother. 

Her  mother  and  she  alone  together  in  the  emptied  room, 
turning  from  each  other,  without  a  word. 


The  wallflowers  had  grown  up  under  the  south  side  of  the 
garden  wall ;  a  hedge  of  butterfly-brown  and  saffron.  They 
gave  out  a  hot,  velvet  smell,  like  roses  and  violets  laced  with 
mignonette. 

Mamma  stood  looking  at  the  wallflowers,  smiling  at  them, 
happy,  as  if  Mark  had  never  gone. 

As  if  Mark  had  never  gone. 


124  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

XV 


Mamma  whispered  to  Mrs.  Draper,  and  Aunt  Bella  whis- 
pered to  Mamma:  "  Fourteen."  They  always  made  a  mys- 
tery about  being  fourteen.     They  ought  to  have  told  her. 

Her  thoughts  about  her  mother  went  up  and  down. 
Mamma  was  not  helpless.  She  was  not  gentle.  She  was 
not  really  like  a  wounded  bird.  She  was  powerful  and 
rather  cruel.  You  could  only  appease  her  with  piles  of 
hemmed  sheets  and  darned  stockings.  If  you  didn't  take 
care  she  would  get  hold  of  you  and  never  rest  till  she  had 
broken  you,  or  turned  and  twisted  you  to  her  own  will. 
She  would  say  it  was  God's  will.  She  would  think  it  was 
God's  will. 

They  might  at  least  have  told  you  about  the  pain.  The 
knives  of  pain.  You  had  to  clench  your  fists  till  the  finger- 
nails bit  into  the  palms.  Over  the  ear  of  the  sofa  cushions 
she  could  feel  her  hot  eyes  looking  at  her  mother  with 
resentment. 

She  thought:  "  You  had  no  business  to  have  me.  You 
had  no  business  to  have  me." 

Somebody  else's  eyes.  Somebody  else's  thoughts.  Not 
yours.    Not  yours. 

Mamma  got  up  and  leaned  over  you  and  covered  you 
with  the  rug.  Her  white  face  quivered  above  you  in  the 
dusk.  Her  mouth  pushed  out  to  yours,  making  a  small 
sound  like  a  moan.  You  heard  yourself  cry:  "Mamma, 
Mamma,  you  are  adorable!  " 

That  was  you. 

n 

And  as  if  Mark  had  never  gone,  as  if  that  awful  thing 
had  never  happened  to  Dan,  as  if  she  had  never  had  those 
thoughts  about  her  mother,  her  hidden  happiness  came  back 
to  her.  Unhappiness  only  pushed  it  to  a  longer  rhythm. 
Nothing  could  take  it  away.  Anything  might  bring  it:  the 
smell  of  the  white  dust  on  the  road ;  the  wind  when  it  came 


ADOLESCENCE  125 

up  out  of  nowhere  and  brushed  the  young  wheat  blades, 
beat  the  green  flats  into  slopes  where  the  white  light  rippled 
and  ran  like  water,  set  the  green  field  shaking  and  tossing 
like  a  green  sea;  the  five  elm  trees,  stiff,  ecstatic  dancers, 
holding  out  the  broken-ladder  pattern  of  their  skirts;  haunt- 
ing rhymes,  sudden  cadences ;  the  grave  "  Ubique  "  sounding 
through  the  Beethoven  Sonata. 

Its  thrill  of  reminiscence  passed  into  the  thrill  of  pre- 
monition, of  something  about  to  happen  to  her. 

XVI 


Poems  made  of  the  white  dust,  of  the  wind  in  the  green 
corn,  of  the  five  trees  —  they  would  be  the  most  beautiful 
poems  in  the  world. 

Sometimes  the  images  of  these  things  would  begin  to 
move  before  her  with  persistence,  as  if  they  were  going  to 
make  a  pattern ;  she  could  hear  a  thin  cling-clang,  a  moving 
white  pattern  of  sound  that,  when  she  tried  to  catch  it, 
broke  up  and  flowed  away.  The  image  pattern  and  the 
sound  pattern  belonged  to  each  other,  but  when  she  tried 
to  bring  them  together  they  fell  apart. 

That  came  of  reading  too  much  Byron. 

How  was  it  that  patterns  of  sound  had  power  to  haunt 
and  excite  you?  Like  the  "  potnia,  potnia  nux  "  that  she 
found  in  the  discarded  Longfellow,  stuck  before  his  "  Voices 
of  the  Night." 

irdTuia,  irSxpia  vii^,  inrvoSdreipa  rC)v  iroKvtrbvwv  ^poruv, 
ipe^bdev  (01,  fx6\e,  fiSXe  KardTrrepos 
r6v  ' AyafiepLvdviov  iirl  Sbjxov, 

She  wished  she  knew  Greek;  the  patterns  the  sounds 
made  were  so  hard  and  still. 

And  there  were  bits  of  patterns,  snapt  off,  throbbing 
wounds  of  sound  that  couldn't  heal.  Lines  out  of  Mark's 
Homer. 

Mark's  Greek  books  had  been  taken  from  her  five  years 
ago,  when  Rodney  went  to  Chelmsted.    And  they  had  coDae 


126  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

back  with  Rodney  this  Easter.  They  stood  on  the  shelf  in 
Mark's  bedroom,  above  his  writing-table. 

One  day  she  found  her  mother  there,  dusting  and  arrang- 
ing the  books.  Besides  the  little  shabby  Oxford  Homers 
there  were  an  ^Eschylus,  a  Sophocles,  two  volumes  of  Aris- 
tophanes, clean  and  new,  three  volumes  of  Euripides  and  a 
Greek  Testament.  On  the  table  a  well-preserved  Greek 
Anthology,  bound  in  green,  with  the  owner's  name,  J.  C. 
Ponsonby,  stamped  on  it  in  gilt  letters.  She  remembered 
Jimmy  giving  it  to  Mark. 

She  took  the  Iliad  from  its  place  and  turned  over  the 
torn,  discoloured  pages. 

Her  mother  looked  up,  annoyed  and  uneasy,  like  a  child 
disturbed  in  the  possession  of  its  toys. 

"  Mark's  books  are  to  be  kept  where  Mark  put  them," 
she  said. 

"  But,  Mamma,  I  want  them." 

Never  in  her  life  had  she  wanted  anything  so  much  as 
those  books. 

"  When  will  you  learn  not  to  want  what  isn't  yours?  " 

"  Mark  doesn't  want  them,  or  he'd  have  taken  them. 
He'd  give  them  me  if  he  was  here." 

"  He  isn't  here.  I  won't  have  them  touched  till  he  comes 
back." 

"  But,  Mamma  darling,  I  may  be  dead.  I've  had  to  wait 
five  years  as  it  is." 

"Wait?    What  for,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

"  To  learn  Greek,  of  course." 

Her  mother's  face  shivered  with  repugnance.  It  was  in- 
credible that  anybody  should  hate  a  poor  dead  language  so. 

"  Just  because  Mark  learnt  Greek,  you  think  you  must 
try.  I  thought  you'd  grown  out  of  all  that  tiresome  affec- 
tation. It  was  funny  when  you  were  a  little  thing,  but  it 
isn't  funny  now." 

Her  mother  sat  down  to  show  how  tired  she  was  of  it. 

"  It's  just  silly  vanity." 

Mary's  heart  made  a  queer  and  startling  movement,  as 
if  it  turned  over  and  dashed  itself  against  her  ribs.  There 
was  a  sudden  swelling  and  aching  in  her  throat.  Her  head 
swam  slightly.    The  room,  Mark's  room,  with  Mark's  white 


ADOLESCENCE  127 

bed  in  one  corner  and  Dan's  white  bed  in  the  other,  had 
changed ;  it  looked  like  a  room  she  had  never  been  in  before. 
She  had  never  seen  that  mahogany  washstand  and  the 
greyish  blue  flowers  on  the  jug  and  basin.  The  person  sit- 
ting on  the  yellow-painted  bedroom  chair  was  a  stranger 
who  wore,  unaccountably,  a  brown  dress  and  a  gold  watch- 
chain  with  a  gold  tassel  that  she  remembered.  She  had 
an  odd  feeling  that  this  person  had  no  right  to  wear  her 
mother's  dress  and  her  chain. 

The  flash  of  queerness  was  accompanied  by  a  sense  of 
irreparable  disaster.  Everything  had  changed;  she  heard 
herself  speaking,  speaking  steadily,  with  the  voice  of  a 
changed  and  unfamiliar  person. 

"  Mark  doesn't  think  it's  vanity.  You  only  think  it  is 
because  you  want  to." 

The  mind  of  this  unfamiliar  self  had  a  remorseless  lucidity 
that  seemed  to  her  more  shocking  than  anything  she  could 
imagine.  It  went  on  as  if  urged  by  some  supreme  necessity. 
"  You're  afraid.    Afraid." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  her  mother  really  was  afraid. 

"  Afraid?    And  what  of?  "  her  mother  said. 

The  flash  went  out,  leaving  her  mind  dark  suddenly  and 
defeated. 

"  I  don't  know  what  of.    I  only  know  you're  afraid." 

"  That's  an  awful  thing  for  any  child  to  say  to  any  mother. 
Just  because  I  won't  let  you  have  your  own  way  in  every- 
thing. Until  your  will  is  resigned  to  God's  will  I  may  well 
be  afraid." 

"  How  do  you  know  God  doesn't  want  me  to  know  Greek? 
He  may  want  it  as  much  as  I  do." 

''  And  if  you  did  know  it,  what  good  would  it  do  you?  " 

She  stood  staring  at  her  mother,  not  answering.  She 
knew  the  sound  patterns  were  beautiful,  and  that  was  all 
she  knew.  Beauty.  Beauty  could  be  hurt  and  frightened 
away  from  you.  If  she  talked  about  it  now  she  would 
expose  it  to  outrage.  Though  she  knew  that  she  must 
appear  to  her  mother  to  be  stubborn  and  stupid,  even  sinful, 
she  put  her  stubbornness,  her  stupidity,  her  sinfulness,  be- 
tween it  and  her  mother  to  defend  it. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  she  said. 


128  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

"  No.    I  don't  suppose  you  can." 

Her  mother  followed  up  the  advantage  given  her.  "  You 
just  go  about  dreaming  and  mooning  as  if  there  was  nothing 
else  in  the  wide  world  for  you  to  do.  I  can't  think  what's 
come  over  you.  You  used  to  be  content  to  sit  still  and  sew 
by  the  hour  together.  You  were  more  help  to  me  when  you 
were  ten  than  you  are  now.  The  other  day  when  I  asked 
you  to  darn  a  hole  in  j^our  own  stocking  you  looked  as  if 
I'd  told  you  to  go  to  your  funeral. 

"  It's  time  you  began  to  take  an  interest  in  looking  after 
the  house.  There's  enough  to  keep  you  busy  most  of  your 
time  if  you  only  did  the  half  of  it." 

"  Is  that  what  you  want  me  to  be,  Mamma?  A  servant, 
like  Catty?  " 

"  Poor  Catty.  If  you  were  more  like  Catty,"  her  mother 
said,  "  you'd  be  happier  than  you  are  now,  I  can  tell  you. 
Catty  is  never  disagreeable  or  disobedient  or  discontented." 

"  No.    But  perhaps  Catty's  mother  thinks  she  is." 

She  thought:  She  is  afraid. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  her  mother  said,  "  it's  any  pleasure 
to  me  to  find  fault  with  my  only  daughter?  If  you  weren't 
my  only  daughter,  perhaps,  I  shouldn't  find  fault." 

Her  new  self  answered  again,  implacable  in  its  lucidity. 
"  You  mean,  if  you'd  had  a  girl  you  could  do  what  you  liked 
with  you'd  have  let  me  alone?  You'd  have  let  me  alone  if 
you  could  have  done  what  you  liked  with  Mark?  " 

She  noticed,  as  if  it  had  a  separate  and  significant  exist- 
ence, her  mother's  hand  lying  on  the  green  cover  of  the 
Greek  Anthology. 

"  If  you  were  like  Mark  —  if  you  were  only  like  him  I  " 

"If  I  only  were!" 

"  Mark  never  hurt  me.  Mark  never  gave  me  a  minute's 
trouble  in  his  life." 

"  He  went  into  the  Army." 

"  He  had  a  perfect  right  to  go  into  the  Army." 

Silence.  "  Minky  —  you'll  be  kind  to  little  Mamma."  A 
hard,  light  sound;  the  vexed  fingers  tap-tapping  on  the 
book.  Her  mother  rose  suddenly,  pushing  the  book  from 
her. 

"  There  —  take    Mark's    books.     Take    everything.     Go 


ADOLESCENCE  129 

your  own  way.  You  always  have  done;  you  always  will. 
Some  day  you'll  be  sorry  for  it." 

She  was  sorry  for  it  now,  miserable,  utterly  beaten.  Her 
new  self  seemed  to  her  a  devil  that  possessed  her.  She  hated 
it.  She  hated  the  books.  She  hated  everything  that  sep- 
arated her  and  made  her  different  from  her  mother  and 
from  Mark. 

Her  mother  went  past  her  to  the  door. 

"  Mamma  —  I  didn't  mean  it  —  Mamma  —  " 

Before  she  could  reach  the  door  it  shut  between  them. 


n 

The  library  at  Five  Elms  was  very  small.  Emilius  used 
it  as  a  smoking-room ;  but  it  was  lined  with  books.  Where 
the  rows  of  shelves  met  the  shutter  cases  a  fold  of  window- 
curtain  overlapped  their  ends. 

On  the  fifth  shelf,  covered  by  the  curtain,  she  found  the 
four  volumes  of  Shelley's  Poetical  Works,  half-bound  in 
marble-paper  and  black  leather.  She  had  passed  them 
scores  of  times  in  her  hunt  for  something  to  read.  Percy 
Bysshe  Shelley.  Percy  Bysshe  —  what  a  silly  name.  She 
had  thought  of  him  as  she  thought  of  Allison's  History  of 
Europe  in  seventeen  volumes,  and  the  poems  of  Cornwall 
and  Leigh  Hunt.  Books  you  wouldn't  read  if  you  were  on 
a  desert  island. 

There  was  something  about  Shelley  in  Byron's  Life  and 
Letters.  Something  she  had  read  and  forgotten,  that  per- 
sisted, struggled  to  make  itself  remembered. 

Shelley's  Pantheism. 

The  pages  of  Shelley  were  very  clean;  they  stuck  together 
lightly  at  the  edges,  like  the  pages  of  the  Encyclopaedia  at 
"  Pantheism  "  and  "  Spinoza."  Whatever  their  secret  was, 
you  would  have  to  find  it  for  yourself. 

Table  of  Contents  —  Poems  written  in  1816  —  "  Hynm  to 
Intellectual  Beauty."     She  read  that  first. 

"  Sudden  thy  shadow  fell  on  me:  — 
I  shrieked,  and  clasped  my  hands  in  ecstasy  I  " 


130  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

It  had  happened  to  Shelley,  too.  He  knew  how  you  felt 
when  it  happened.  (Only  you  didn't  shriek.)  It  was  a  real 
thing,  then,  that  did  happen  to  people. 

She  read  the  ''  Ode  to  a  Skylark,"  the  ''  Ode  to  the  West 
Wind  "  and  "  Adonais." 

All  her  secret  happiness  was  there.  Shelley  knew  about 
the  queerness  of  the  sharp  white  light,  and  the  sudden  still- 
ness, when  the  grey  of  the  fields  turns  to  violet:  the  clear, 
hard  stillness  that  covers  the  excited  throb-throbbing  of  the 
light. 

"  Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-coloured  glass, 
Stains  the  white  radiance  of  eternity  "  — 

Colours  were  more  beautiful  than  white  radiance.  But 
that  was  because  of  the  light.  The  more  light  there  was  in 
them  the  more  beautiful  they  were;  it  was  their  real  life. 

One  afternoon  Mr.  Propart  called.  He  came  into  the 
library  to  borrow  a  book. 

"  And  what  are  you  so  deep  in?  "  he  said. 

"  Shelley." 

"Shelley?  Shelley?"  He  looked  at  her.  A  kind,  con- 
sidering look.  She  liked  his  grey  face  with  its  tired  keen- 
ness. She  thought  he  was  going  to  say  something  interest- 
ing about  Shelley;  but  he  only  smiled  his  thin,  drooping 
smile;  and  presently  he  went  away  with  his  book. 

Next  morning  the  Shelleys  were  not  in  their  place  behind  ^ 

the  curtain.     Somebody  had  moved  them  to  the  top  shelf. 
Catty  brought  the  step-ladder. 

In  the  evening  they  were  gone.  Mr.  Propart  must  have 
borrowed  them. 


Ill 

"  To  this,  then,  comes  our  whole  argument  respecting  the 
fourth  kind  of  madness,  on  account  of  which  anyone,  who, 
on  seeing  the  beauty  in  this  lower  world,  being  reminded  of 
the  true,  begins  to  recover  his  wings,  and,  having  recovered 
them,  longs  to  soar  aloft,  but,  being  unable  to  do  it,  looks 
upwards  like  a  bird,  and  despising  things  below,  is  deemed 
to  be  affected  with  madness." 


J1 


ADOLESCENCE  131 

Beauty  in  itself.  In  itself  —  Beauty  in  beautiful  things. 
She  had  never  thought  about  it  that  way  before.  It  would 
be  like  the  white  light  in  the  colours. 

Plato,  discovered  in  looking  for  the  lost  Shelleys,  thus 
consoled  her.  The  Plato  of  Bohn's  Library.  Gary's  Eng- 
lish for  Plato's  Greek.  Slab  upon  slab.  No  hard,  still 
sound-patterns.  Grey  slabs  of  print,  shining  with  an  inner 
light  —  Plato's  thought. 

Her  happiness  was  there,  too. 

XVII 


The  French  nephew  was  listening.  He  had  been  listening 
for  quite  a  long  time,  ten  minutes  perhaps;  ever  since  they 
had  turned  off  the  railway  bridge  into  Ley  Street. 

They  had  known  each  other  for  exactly  four  hours  and 
seventeen  minutes.  She  had  gone  to  the  Drapers  for  tea. 
Rodney  had  left  her  on  their  doorstep  and  he  had  found  her 
there  and  had  brought  her  into  the  dining-room.  That,  he 
declared,  was  at  five  o'clock,  and  it  was  now  seventeen 
minutes  past  nine  by  his  watch  which  he  showed  her. 

It  had  begim  at  tea-time.  When  he  listened  he  turned 
round,  excitedly,  in  his  chair;  he  stooped,  bringing  his  eyes 
level  with  yours.  When  he  talked  he  tossed  back  his  head 
and  stuck  out  his  sharp-bearded  chin.  She  was  not  sure 
that  she  liked  his  eyes.  Hot  black.  Smoky  blurs  like 
breath  on  glass.  Old.  tired  eyelids.  Or  his  funny,  sallow- 
ish  face,  narrowing  to  the  black  chin-beard.  Ugly  one  min- 
ute, nice  the  next. 

It  moved  too  much.  He  could  say  all  sorts  of  things 
with  it  and  with  his  shoulders  and  his  hands.  Mrs.  Draper 
said  that  was  because  he  was  half  French. 

He  was  showing  her  how  French  verse  should  be  read 
when  Rodney  came  for  her,  and  Dr.  Draper  sent  Rodney 
away  and  kept  her  for  dinner. 

The  French  nephew  was  taking  her  home  now.  They  had 
passed  the  crook  of  the  road. 

"  And  all  this  time,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  know  your  name." 


132  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Maurice.  Maurice  Jourdain.  I  know  yours  —  Mary 
Olivier.     I  like  it." 

"  You  wouldn't  if  you  were  me  and  your  father  kept  on 
saying,  '  Mary,  Mary,  quite  contrary,'  and  '  Mary  had  a 
little  lamb.'  " 

"  Fathers  will  do  these  cruel  things.  It's  a  way  they 
have." 

*'  Papa  isn't  cruel.  Only  he's  so  awfully  fond  of  Mamma 
that  he  can't  think  about  us.  He  doesn't  mind  me  so 
much." 

''  Oh  —  he  doesn't  mind  you  so  much?  " 

"  No.    It's  Mark  he  can't  stand." 

"  Who  is  Mark?  " 

"  My  brother.     Mark  is  a  soldier  —  Royal  Artillery." 

"  Lucky  Mark.     I  was  to  have  been  a  soldier." 

"  Why  weren't  you?  " 

"  My  mother  wouldn't  have  liked  it.  So  I  had  to  give 
it  up." 

"  How  you  must  have  loved  her.  Mark  loves  my  mother 
more  than  anything;  but  he  couldn't  have  done  that." 

"  Perhaps  Mark  hasn't  got  to  provide  for  his  mother  and 
his  sisters.  I  had.  And  I  had  to  go  into  a  disgusting 
business  to  do  it." 

"Oh-h  — " 

He  was  beautiful  inside.  He  did  beautiful  things.  She 
was  charmed,  suddenly,  by  his  inner,  his  immaterial  beauty. 
She  thought:  "  He  must  be  ever  so  old." 

"  But  it's  made  them  love  you  awfully,  hasn't  it?  "  she 
said. 

His  shoulders  and  eyebrows  lifted ;  he  made  a  queer  move- 
ment with  his  hands,  palms  outwards.  He  stood  still  in  the 
path,  turned  to  her,  straight  and  tall.  He  looked  down  at 
her;  his  lips  jerked;  the  hard,  sharp  smile  bared  narrow 
teeth. 

"  The  more  you  do  for  people  the  less  they  love  you," 
he  said. 

"  Your  people  must  be  very  funny." 

"  No.  No.  They're  simply  pious,  orthodox  Christians, 
and  I  don't  believe  in  Christianity.  I'm  an  atheist.  I  don't 
believe  their  God  exists.    I  hope  he  doesn't.    They  wouldn't 


ADOLESCENCE  133 

mind  so  much  if  I  were  a  villain,  too,  but  it's  awkward  for 
them  when  they  find  an  infidel  practising  any  of  the  Chris- 
tian virtues.  My  eldest  sister,  Ruth,  would  tell  you  that  I 
am  a  villain." 

"  She  doesn't  really  think  it." 

"Doesn't  she!  My  dear  child,  she's  got  to  think  it,  or 
give  up  her  belief." 

She  could  see  the  gable  end  of  Five  Elms  now.  It  would 
soon  be  over.    When  they  got  to  the  garden  gate. 

It  was  over. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "  I  must  shut  the  prison  door." 

They  looked  at  each  other  through  the  bars  and  laughed. 

"  When  shall  I  see  you  again?  "  he  said. 

n 

She  had  seen  him  again.  She  could  count  the  times  on 
the  fingers  of  one  hand.  Once,  when  he  came  to  dinner 
with  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Draper;  once  at  Sunday  supper  with  the 
Drapers  after  Church;  once  on  a  Saturday  when  Mrs. 
Draper  asked  her  to  tea  again;  and  once  when  he  called  to 
take  her  for  a  walk  in  the  fields. 

Mamma  had  lifted  her  eyebrows  and  Mrs.  Draper  said, 
"  Nonsense.     He's  old  enough  to  be  her  father." 

The  green  corn  stood  above  her  ankles  then.  This  was 
the  fifth  time.  The  corn  rose  to  her  waist.  The  ears  were 
whitening. 

"  You're  the  only  person  besides  Mark  who  listens.  There 
was  Jimmy.  But  that  was  different.  He  didn't  know 
things.     He's  a  darling,  but  he  doesn't  know  things." 

"  Who  is  Jimmy?  " 

"  Mark's  friend  and  mine." 

"  Where  is  he?  " 

"  In  Australia.  He  can't  ever  come  back,  so  I  shall  never 
see  him  again." 

"  I'm  glad  to  hear  it." 

A  sudden,  dreadful  doubt.  She  turned  to  him  in  the 
narrow  path. 

"  You  aren't  laughing  at  me,  are  you?  You  don't  think 
I'm  shamming  and  showing  off?  " 


134  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  I?     I?    Laughing  at  you?    My  poor  child  — No—  " 

"  They  don't  understand  that  you  can  really  love  words  — 
beautiful  sounds.  And  thoughts.  Love  them  awfully,  as 
if  they  were  alive.     As  if  they  were  people." 

"  They  are  alive.  They're  better  than  people.  You  know 
the  best  of  your  Shelley  and  Plato  and  Spinoza.  Instead 
of  the  worst." 

"  I  should  have  liked  to  have  known  them,  too.  Some- 
times I  pretend  that  I  do  know  them.  That  they're  alive. 
That  they're  here.  Saying  things  and  listening.  They're 
kind.  They  never  misunderstand.  They  never  lose  their 
tempers." 

"  You  mustn't  do  that,"  he  said  sharply. 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  It  isn't  good  for  you.  Talk  to  me.  I'm  alive.  I'm 
here,  I'll  listen.  I'll  never  misunderstand.  I'll  never  lose 
my  temper." 

"  You  aren't  always  here." 

He  smiled,  secretly,  with  straight  lips,  under  the  funny, 
frizzy,  French  moustache.  And  when  he  spoke  again  he 
looked  old  and  wise,  like  an  uncle. 

"  Wait,"  he  said.     "  Wait  a  bit.     Wait  three  years." 

"  Three  years?  "  she  said.  "  Three  years  before  we  can 
go  for  another  walk?  " 

He  shouted  laughter  and  drew  it  back  with  a  groan. 

She  couldn't  tell  him  that  she  pretended  he  was  there 
when  he  was  not  there;  that  she  created  situations. 

He  was  ill,  and  she  nursed  him.  She  could  feel  the 
weight  of  his  head  against  her  arm,  and  his  forehead  —  hot 
—  hot  under  her  hand.  She  had  felt  her  hands  to  see 
whether  they  would  be  nice  enough  to  put  on  Mr.  Jourdain's 
forehead.  They  were  rather  nice;  cool  and  smooth;  the 
palms  brushed  together  with  a  soft,  swishing  sound  like  fine 
silk. 

He  was  poor  and  she  worked  for  him. 

He  was  in  danger  and  she  saved  him.  From  a  runaway 
horse;  from  a  furious  dog;  from  a  burning  house;  from  a 
lunatic  with  a  revolver. 

It  made  her  sad  to  think  how  unlikely  it  was  that  any  of 
these  things  would  ever  happen. 


ADOLESCENCE  135 


III 

"  Mr.  Joiirdain,  I  am  going  to  school." 

The  corn  was  reaped  and  carried.  The  five  elms  stood 
high  above  the  shallow  stubble. 

"  My  poor  Mary,  is  it  possible?  " 

"  Yes.  Mamma  says  she's  been  thinking  of  it  for  a  long 
time." 

"  Don't  be  too  hard  on  your  mother  till  you're  quite  sure 
it  wasn't  my  aunt." 

"  It  may  have  been  both  of  them.  Anyhow,  it's  awful. 
Just  —  just  when  I  was  so  happy." 

"  Just  when  I  was  so  happy,"  he  said.  *'  But  that's  the 
sort  of  thing  they  do." 

"  I  knew  you'd  be  sorry  for  me." 

XVIII 


She  was  shut  up  with  Papa,  tight,  in  the  narrow  cab  that 
smelt  of  the  mews.  Papa,  sitting  slantways,  nearly  filled 
the  cab.  He  was  quiet  and  sad,  almost  as  if  he  were  sorry- 
she  was  going. 

His  sadness  and  quietness  fascinated  her.  He  had  a 
mysterious,  wonderful,  secret  life  going  on  in  him.  Funny 
you  should  think  of  it  for  the  first  time  in  the  cab.  Sup- 
posing you  stroked  his  hand.  Better  not.  He  mightn't 
like  it. 

Not  forty  minutes  from  Liverpool  Street  to  Victoria.  If 
only  cabs  didn't  smell  so. 

II 

The  small,  ugly  houses  streamed  past,  backs  turned  to 
the  train,  stuck  together,  rushing,  rushing  in  from  the 
country. 

Grey  streets,  trying  to  cut  across  the  stream,  getting 
nowhere,  carried  past  sideways  on. 

Don't  look  at  the  houses.    Shut  your  eyes  and  remember. 

Her  father's  hand  on  her  shoulder.     His  face,  at  the  car- 


136  MARY    OLIVIER:    A    LIFE 

riage  window,  looking  for  her.  A  girl  moving  back,  pushing 
her  to  it.     "Papa!  " 

Why  hadn't  she  loved  him  all  the  time?  Why  hadn't  she 
liked  his  beard?  His  nice,  brown,  silky  beard.  His  poor 
beard. 

Mamma's  face,  in  the  hall,  breaking  up  suddenly.  Her 
tears  in  your  mouth.  Her  arms,  crushing  you.  Mamma's 
face  at  the  dining-room  window.  Tears,  pricking,  cutting 
your  e^^elids.  Blink  them  back  before  the  girls  see  them. 
Don't  think  of  Mamma. 

The  Thames.  Barking  Creek  goes  into  the  Thames  and 
the  Roding  goes  into  Barking  Creek.  Yesterday,  the  last 
walk  with  Roddy,  across  Barking  Flats  to  the  river,  over 
the  dry,  sallow  grass,  the  wind  blowing  in  their  faces. 
Roddy's  face,  beautiful,  like  Mamma's,  his  mouth,  white  at 
the  edges.  Roddy  gasping  in  the  wind,  trying  to  laugh,  his 
heart  thumping.  Roddy  was  excited  when  he  saw  the  tall 
masts  of  the  ships.     He  had  wanted  to  be  a  sailor. 

Dan's  face,  when  he  said  good-bye;  his  hurt,  unhappy 
eyes;  the  little  dark,  furry  moustache  trying  to  come. 
Tibby's  eyes.  Dank  wanted  to  marry  Effie.  Mark  was 
the  only  one  who  got  what  he  wanted.  , 

Better  not  think  of  Dank.  a 

She  looked  shyly  at  her  companions.  The  stout  lady  in 
brown,  sitting  beside  her;  kind,  thin  mouth,  pursed  to  look 
important;  dull  kind  eyes  trying  to  be  wise  and  sharp  behind 
spectacles,  between  curtains  of  dead  hair.  A  grand  manner, 
excessively  polite,  on  the  platform,  to  Papa  —  Miss 
Lambert. 

The  three  girls,  all  facing  them.  Pam  Quin;  flaxen  pig- 
tail; grown  up  nose;  polite  mouth,  buttoned,  little  flaxen  and 
pink  old  lady,  Pam  Quin,  talking  about  her  thirteenth 
birthday. 

Lucy  Elliott,  red  pig-tail,  suddenly  sad  in  her  corner, 
innocent  white-face,  grey  eyes  blinking  to  swallow  her  tears. 
Frances  Elliott,  hay  coloured  pig-tail,  very  upright,  sitting 
forward  and  talking  fast  to  hide  her  sister's  shame. 

Mamma's  face  —  Don't  think  of  it. 

Green  fields  and  trees  rushing  past  now.  Stop  a  tree  and 
you'll  change  and  feel  the  train  moving.    Plato.    You  can't 


ADOLESCENCE  137 

trust  your  senses.  The  cave-dwellers  didn't  see  the  things 
liiat  really  moved,  only  the  shadows  of  the  images  of  the 
things.  Is  the  world  in  your  mind  or  your  mind  in  the 
world?  Which  really  moves?  Perhaps  the  world  stands 
still  and  you  move  on  and  on  like  the  train.  If  both  moved 
together  that  would  feci  like  standing  still. 

Grass  banks.  Telegraph  wires  dipping  and  rising  like 
sea-waves.    At  Dover  there  would  be  the  sea. 

Mamma's  face  —  Think.  Think  harder.  The  world  was 
going  on  before  your  mind  started.  Supposing  you  lived 
before,  would  that  settle  it?  No.  A  white  chalk  cutting 
flashed  by.  God's  mind  is  what  both  go  on  in.  That 
settles  it. 

The  train  dashed  into  a  tunnel.  A  long  tunnel.  She 
couldn't  remember  what  she  was  thinking  of  the  second 
before  they  went  in.  Something  that  settled  it.  Settled 
what?    She  couldn't  think  any  more. 

Dover.  The  girls  standing  up,  and  laughing.  They  said 
she  had  gone  to  sleep  in  the  train. 

Ill 

There  was  no  sea;  only  the  Maison  Dieu  Road  and  the 
big  square  house  in  the  walled  garden.  Brown  wire  blinds 
half  way  up  the  schoolroom  windows.  An  old  lady  with 
grey  hair  and  a  kind,  blunt  face,  like  Jenny ;  she  unpacked 
your  box  in  the  large,  light  bedroom,  folding  and  unfolding 
your  things  with  little  gentle,  tender  hands.  Miss  Haynes. 
She  hoped  you  would  be  happy  with  them,  hoped  you 
wouldn't  mind  sleeping  alone  the  first  night,  thought  you 
must  be  hungry  and  took  you  down  to  tea  in  the  long 
dining-room. 

More  girls,  pretending  not  to  look  at  you ;  talking  politely 
to  Miss  Lambert. 

After  tea  they  paired  off,  glad  to  see  each  other.  She 
sat  in  the  comer  of  the  schoolroom  reading  the  new  green 
Shakespeare  that  Roddy  had  given  her.  Two  girls  glanced 
at  her,  looked  at  each  other.  "  Is  she  doing  it  for  fun?  " 
"  Cheek,  more  likely." 

Ni^ht.    A  strange  white  bed.    Two  empty  beds,  strange 


138  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

and  white,  in  the  L^rge,  light  room.  She  wondered  what 
sort  of  girls  would  be  sleeping  there  to-morrow  night.  A 
big  white  curtain:  you  could  draw  it  across  the  room  and 
shut  them  out. 

She  lay  awake,  thinking  of  her  mother,  crying  now  and 
then;  thinking  of  Roddy  and  Dan.  Mysterious,  measured 
sounds  came  through  the  open  window.  That  was  the  sea. 
She  got  up  and  looked  out.  The  deep-walled  garden  lay 
under  the  window,  black  and  clear  like  a  well.  Calais  was 
over  there.  And  Paris.  Mr.  Jourdain  had  written  to  say 
he  was  going  to  Paris.     She  had  his  letter. 

In  bed  she  felt  for  the  sharp  edge  of  the  envelope  sticking 
out  under  the  pillow.  She  threw  back  the  hot  blankets. 
The  wind  flowed  to  her,  running  cold  like  water  over  the 
thin  sheet. 

A  light  moved  across  the  ceiling.  Somebody  had  waked 
her.  Somebody  was  putting  the  blankets  back  again,  press- 
ing a  large,  kind  hand  to  her  forehead.    Miss  Lambert. 

IV 

"  Mais  —  mais  —  de  grace !  ^a  ne  finira  j  amais  —  j  amais, 
s'il  faut  repondre  a  tes  sottises,  Marie.     Recommengons." 

Mademoiselle,  golden  top-knot  shining  and  shaking,  blue 
eyes  rolling  between  black  lashes. 

"  De  ta  tige  detachee, 
Pauvre  feuille  dessechee  "  — 

Detachee  —  dessechee.  They  didn't  rhyme.  Their  not 
rhyming  irritated  her  distress. 

She  hated  the  schoolroom:  the  ochreish  wall-paper,  the 
light  soiled  by  the  brown  wire  gauze;  the  cramped  classes, 
the  faint  odour  of  girl's  skin;  girl's  talk  in  the  bedroom 
when  you  undressed. 

The  queer  she-things  had  a  wonderful,  mysterious  life 
you  couldn't  touch. 

Clara,  when  she  walked  with  you,  smiling  with  her  black- 
treacle  eyes  and  bad  teeth,  glad  to  be  talked  to.  Clara  in 
bed.  You  bathed  her  forehead  with  eau-de-cologne,  and 
she  lay  there,  happy,  glad  of  her  headache  that  made  them 


ADOLESCENCE  139 

sorry  for  her.  Clara,  waiting  for  you  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairs,  looking  with  dog's  eyes,  imploring.  "  Will  you  walk 
with  me?  "  "  I  can't.  I'm  going  with  Lucy."  She  turned 
her  wounded  dog's  eyes  and  slunk  away,  beaten,  humble,  to 
walk  with  the  little  ones. 

Lucy  Elliott  in  the  bathing  machine,  slipping  from  the 
cloak  of  the  towel,  slender  and  straight;  sea  water  gluing 
red  weeds  of  hair  to  her  white  skin.  Sweet  eyes  looking 
towards  you  in  the  evening  at  sewing-time. 

"  Will  you  sit  with  me  at  sewing?  " 

"  I'm  sitting  with  Rose  Godwin." 

Sudden  sweetness;  sudden  trouble;  grey  eyes  dark  and 
angry  behind  sudden  tears.  She  wouldn't  look  at  you; 
wouldn't  tell  you  what  you  had  done. 

Rose  Godwin,  strong  and  clever;  fourteen;  head  of  the 
school.  Honey-white  Roman  face;  brown-black  hair  that 
smelt  like  Brazilian  nuts.  Rose  Godwin  walking  with  you 
in  the  garden. 

"  You  must  behave  like  other  people  if  you  expect  them 
to  like  you." 

"  I  don't  expect  them.     How  do  I  behave?  " 

"  It  isn't  exactly  behaving.  It's  more  the  way  you  talk 
and  look  at  people.  As  if  you  saw  slap  through  them.  Or 
else  as  if  you  didn't  see  them  at  all.  That's  worse.  People 
don't  like  it." 

"  Anything  else?  " 

"  Yes.  It  was  cheeky  of  you  to  tell  Mademoiselle  that 
those  French  verses  didn't  rhyme." 

"  But  they  didn't." 

"  Who  cares?  " 

"  I  care.     I  care  frightfully." 

"  There  you  go.  That's  exactly  what  I  mean,"  Rose  said. 
"  Who  cares  if  you  care?  And  there's  another  thing.  You're 
worrying  Miss  Lambert.  This  school  of  hers  has  got  a 
name  for  sound  religious  teaching.  You  may  not  like  sound 
religious  teaching,  but  she's  got  fifteen  of  us  to  look  after 
besides  you.  If  you  want  to  be  an  atheist,  go  and  be  it  by 
yourself." 

"  I'm  not  an  atheist." 

"  Well,  whatever  silly  thing  you  are.  You  mustn't  talk 
about  it  to  the  girls.     It  isn't  fair,"  Rose  said. 


140  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  All  right.     I  won't." 
"  On  your  honour?  " 
"  On  my  honour." 

V 

A  three-cornered  note  on  her  dressing-table  at  bed-time  •- 
Sept.  20th,  1878.    Maison  Dieu  Lodge. 

"  My  dear  Mary :  Our  talk  was  not  satisfactory.  Unless 
you  can  assure  me  by  to-morrow  morning  that  you  believe 
in  the  Blessed  Trinity  and  all  the  other  truths  of  our  most 
holy  religion,  I  fear  that,  much  as  we  love  you,  we  dare  not 
keep  you  with  us,  for  your  school-fellows'  sake. 

"  Think  it  over,  my  dear  child,  and  let  me  know.  Pray  to 
God  to-night  to  change  your  heart  and  mind  and  give  you 
His  Holy  Spirit, 

"  Affectionately  yours, 

"  Henrietta  Lambert." 

The  Trinity.    A  three-cornered  note. 

"  My  dear  Miss  Lambert:  I  am  very  sorry;  but  it  really 
isn't  any  good,  and  if  it  was  it  couldn't  be  done  in  the  time. 
You  wouldn't  like  it  if  I  told  you  lies,  would  you?  That's 
why  I  can't  join  in  the  prayers  and  say  the  Creed  and  bow; 
in  Church  or  anywhere.  Rose  made  me  promise  not  to  talk 
about  it,  and  I  won't. 

"  If  you  must  send  me  away  to-morrow  morning,  you 
must.     But  I'm  glad  you  love  me.     I  was  afraid  you  didn't. 
"  With  love,  your  very  affectionate 

"  Mary  Olivier." 

"  P.S.  —  I've  folded  my  clothes  all  ready  for  packing." 

To-morrow  the  clothes  were  put  back  again  in  their  draw- 
ers. She  wasn't  going.  Miss  Lambert  said  something 
about  Rose  and  Lucy  and  "  kindness  to  poor  Clara." 

VI 

Rose  Godwin  told  her  that  home-sickness  wore  off.  It 
didn't.     It  came  beating  up  and  up,  like  madness,  out  of 


ADOLESCENCE  141 

nothing.  The  French  verbs,  grey,  slender  as  little  verses  on 
the  page,  the  French  verbs  swam  together  and  sank  under 
the  clear-floating  images  of  home-sickness.  Mamma's  face, 
Roddy's,  Dan's  face.  Tall  trees,  the  Essex  fields,  flat  as 
water,  falling  away"  behind  them.  Little  feathery  trees, 
flying  low  on  the  sky-line.  Outside  the  hallucination  the 
soiled  light  shut  you  in. 

The  soiled  light;  odours  from  the  warm  roots  of  girl's 
hair;  and  Sunday.  Sunday;  stale  odours  of  churches.  You 
wrote  out  the  sermon  you  had  not  listened  to  and  had  not 
heard.  Somebody  told  you  the  text,  and  you  amused  your- 
self by  seeing  how  near  you  could  get  to  what  you  would 
have  heard  if  you  had  listened.  After  tea,  hymns;  then 
church  again.  Your  heart  laboured  with  the  strain  of 
kneeling,  arms  lifted  up  to  the  high  pew  ledge.  You 
breathed  pew  dust.  Your  brain  swayed  like  a  bladder, 
brittle,  swollen  with  hot  gas-fumes.  After  supper,  prayers 
again.     Sunday  was  over. 

On  Monday,  the  tenth  day,  she  ran  away  to  Dover  Har- 
bour. She  had  thought  she  could  get  to  London  with  two 
weeks'  pocket-money  and  what  was  left  of  Uncle  Victor's 
tip  after  she  had  paid  for  the  eau-de-cologne;  but  the  ticket 
man  said  it  would  only  take  her  as  far  as  Canterbury.  She 
had  frightened  Miss  Lambert  and  made  her  tremble:  all  for 
nothing,  except  the  sight  of  the  Harbour.  It  was  dreadful  to 
see  her  tremble.    Even  the  Harbour  wasn't  worth  it. 

A  miracle  would  have  to  happen. 

Two  weeks  passed  and  three  weeks.  And  on  the  first 
evening  of  the  fourth  week  the  miracle  happened.  Rose 
Godwin  came  to  her  and  whispered:  *'  You're  wanted  in  the 
dining-room." 

Her  mother's  letter  lay  open  on  the  table.  A  tear  had 
made  a  glazed  snail's  track  down  Miss  Lambert's  cheek; 
and  Mary  thought  that  one  of  them  was  dead  —  Roddy  — 
Dan  —  Papa. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear  —  don't  cry.     You're  going  home." 

"  Why?    Why  am  I  going?  " 

She  could  see  the  dull,  kind  eyes  trying  to  look  clever. 

"  Because  your  mother  has  sent  for  you.  She  wants  you 
back  again." 


142  MARY    OLIVIER:     A   LIFE 

"  Mamma?    What  does  she  want  me  for?  " 
Miss  Lambert's  eyes  turned  aside  shmtways.     She  swal- 
lowed  something  in   her  throat,   making   a    funny   noise: 
qualk-qualk. 

"  It  isn't  youf    You  aren't  sending  me  away?  " 
"  No ;  we're  not  sending  you.     But  we  think  it's  best  for 
you  to  go.     We  can't  bear  to  see  your  dear,  unhappy  little 
face  going  about  the  passages." 
"  Does  it  mean  that  Mamma  isn't  happy  without  me?  " 
"  Well  —  she    ivould   miss   her   only   daughter,   wouldn't 
she?  " 
The  miracle.     The  shining,  lovely  miracle. 
"  Mary  Olivier  is  going!    Mary  Olivier  is  going!  " 
Actually  the   girls  were   sorry.     Too   sorry.     The   com- 
passion in  Rose  Godwin's  face  stirred  a  doubt.     Doubt  of 
the  miracle. 

She  carried  her  books  to  the  white  curtained  room  where 
Miss  Haynes  knelt  by  her  trunk,  packing  her  clothes  with 
little  gentle,  tender  hands. 
"  Miss  Haynes  "  (suddenly),  ''  I'm  not  expelled,  am  I?  " 
"  Expelled?     My   dear   child,   who's  talking   about  ex- 
pulsion? " 

As  if  she  said.  When  miracles  are  worked  for  you,  accept 
them. 

She  lay  awake,  thinking  what  she  should  say  to  her  mother 
when  she  got  home.  She  would  have  to  tell  her  that  just 
at  first  she  very  nearly  ivas  expelled.  Then  her  mother 
would  believe  in  her  unbelief  and  not  think  she  was 
shamming. 

And  she  would  have  to  explain  about  her  unbelief.  And 
about  Pantheism. 


VII 

She  wondered  how  she  would  set  about  it.  It  wouldn't 
do  to  start  suddenly  by  saying  you  didn't  believe  in  Jesus 
or  the  God  of  the  Old  Testament  or  Hell.  That  would  hurt 
her  horribly.  The  only  decent  thing  would  be  to  let  her  see 
how  beautiful  Spinoza's  God  was  and  leave  it  to  her  to 
make  the  comparison. 


ADOLESCENCE  143 

You  would  have  to  make  it  quite  clear  to  yourself  first. 
It  was  like  this.  There  were  the  five  elm  trees,  and  there 
was  the  happy  white  light  on  the  fields.  God  was  the  trees. 
He  was  the  happy  light  and  he  was  your  happiness.  There 
was  Catty  singing  in  the  kitchen.     God  was  Catty. 

Oh  —  and  there  was  Papa  and  Papa's  temper.  God  would 
have  to  be  Papa  too. 

Spinoza  couldn't  have  meant  it  that  way. 

He  meant  that  though  God  was  all  Papa,  Papa  was  not 
all  God.  He  was  only  a  bit  of  him.  He  meant  that  if  God 
was  the  only  reality.  Papa  wouldn't  be  cpite  real. 

But  if  Papa  wasn't  quite  real  then  Mamma  and  Mark  were 
not  quite  real  either. 

If  Spinoza  had  meant  that  — 

But  perhaps  he  hadn't.  Perhaps  he  meant  that  parts  of 
Papa,  the  parts  you  saw  most  of  —  his  beard,  for  instance, 
and  his  temper  —  were  not  quite  real,  but  that  some  other 
part  of  him,  the  part  you  couldn't  see,  might  be  real  in  the 
same  way  that  God  was.  That  would  be  Papa  himself,  and 
it  would  be  God  too.  And  if  God  could  be  Papa,  he  would 
have  no  difficulty  at  all  in  being  Mamma  and  Mark. 

Surely  Mamma  would  see  that,  if  you  had  to  have  a  God, 
Spinoza's  was  by  far  the  nicest  God,  besides  being  the 
easiest  to  believe  in.  Surely  it  would  please  her  to  think 
like  that  about  Papa,  to  know  that  his  temper  was  not  quite 
real,  and  that  your  sin,  when  you  sinned,  was  not  quite  real, 
so  that  not  even  your  sin  could  separate  you  from  God. 
All  your  life  Mamma  had  dinned  into  you  the  agony  of 
separation  from  God,  and  the  necessity  of  the  Atonement. 
She  would  feel  much  more  comfortable  if  she  knew  that 
there  never  had  been  any  separation,  and  that  there  needn't 
be  any  Atonement. 

Of  course  she  might  not  like  the  idea  of  sin  being  some- 
how inside  God.  She  might  say  it  looked  bad.  But  if  it 
wasn't  inside  God,  it  would  have  to  be  outside  him,  support- 
ing itself  and  causing  itself,  and  then  where  were  you? 
You  would  have  to  say  that  God  was  not  the  cause  of  all 
things,  and  that  would  be  much  worse. 

Surely  if  you  put  it  to  her  like  that — ?  But  somehow 
she  couldn't  hear  herself  saying  all  that  to  her  mother. 
Supposing  Mamma  wouldn't  listen? 


144  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

And  she  couldn't  hear  herself  talking  about  her  happi- 
ness, the  sudden,  secret  happiness  that  more  than  anything 
was  like  God.  When  she  thought  of  it  she  was  hot  and 
cold  by  turns  and  she  had  no  words  for  it.  She  remembered 
the  first  time  it  had  come  to  her,  and  how  she  had  found 
her  mother  in  the  drawing-room  and  had  knelt  down  at  her 
knees  and  kissed  her  hands  with  the  idea  of  drawing  her 
into  her  happiness.  And  she  remembered  her  mother's  face. 
It  made  her  ashamed,  even  now,  as  if  she  had  been  silly. 
She  thought:  I  shall  never  be  able  to  talk  about  it  to 
Mamma. 

Yet  —  perhaps  —  now  that  the  miracle  had  happened  — 

VIII 

In  the  morning  Miss  Lambert  took  her  up  to  London. 
She  had  a  sort  of  idea  that  the  kind  lady  talked  to  her  a 
great  deal,  about  God  and  the  Christian  religion.  But  she 
couldn't  listen;  she  couldn't  talk;  she  couldn't  think  now. 

For  three  hours,  in  the  train,  in  the  waiting-room  at  Vic- 
toria, while  Miss  Lambert  talked  to  Papa  outside,  in  the 
cab,  alone  with  Papa  —  Miss  Lambert  must  have  said  some- 
thing nice  about  her,  for  he  looked  pleased,  as  if  he  wouldn't 
mind  if  you  did  stroke  his  hand  —  in  Mr.  Parish's  wagonette, 
she  sat  happy  and  still,  contemplating  the  shining,  lovely 
miracle. 

IX 

She  saw  Catty  open  the  front  door  and  run  away.  Her 
mother  was  coming  slowly  down  the  narrow  hall. 

She  ran  up  the  flagged  path. 

"  Mamma!  "    She  flung  herself  to  the  embrace. 

Her  mother  swerved  from  her,  staggering  back  and  put- 
ting out  her  hands  between  them.  Aware  of  Mr.  Parish 
shouldering  the  trunk,  she  turned  into  the  open  dining-room. 
Mary  followed  her  and  shut  the  door. 

Her  mother  sat  down,  helplessly.  Mary  saw  that  she  was 
crying;  she  had  been  crying  a  long  time.  Her  soaked 
eyelashes  were  parted  by  her  tears  and  gathered  into  points. 

"Mamma  —  what  is  it?" 

"  What  is  it?    You've  disgraced  yourself.    Everlastingly. 


ADOLESCENCE  145 

You've  disgraced  your  father,  and  you've  disgraced  me. 
That's  what  it  is." 

"  I  haven't  done  anything  of  the  sort,  Mamma." 

"You  don't  think  it's  a  disgrace,  then,  to  be  expelled? 
For  infidelity." 

"  But  I'm  not  expelled." 

"  You  are  expelled.    And  you  know  it." 

"  No.  They  said  I  wasn't.  They  didn't  want  me  to  go. 
They  told  me  you  wanted  me  back  again." 

"  Is  it  likely  I  should  want  you  when  you  hadn't  been 
gone  three  weeks?  " 

She  could  hear  herself  gasp,  see  herself  standing  there, 
open-mouthed,  idiotic. 

Nothing  could  shake  her  mother  in  her  belief  that  she 
had  been  expelled. 

"  Of  course,  if  it  makes  you  happier  to  believe  it,"  she 
said  at  last,  "  do.  Will  you  let  me  see  Miss  Lambert's 
letter?  " 

"  No,"  her  mother  said.     "  I  will  not." 

Suddenly  she  felt  hard  and  strong,  grown-up  in  her  sad 
wisdom.  Her  mother  didn't  love  her.  She  never  had  loved 
her.  Nothing  she  could  ever  do  would  make  her  love  her. 
Miracles  didn't  happen. 

She  thought:  "  I  wonder  why  she  won't  let  me  see  Miss 
Lambert's  letter?  " 

She  went  upstairs  to  her  room.  She  leaned  on  the  sill  of 
the  open  window,  looking  out,  drinking  in  the  sweet  air  of 
the  autumn  fields.  The  five  elms  raised  golden  heads  to  a 
blue  sky. 

Her  childhood  had  died  with  a  little  gasp. 

Catty  came  in  to  unpack  her  box.  Catty,  with  wet 
cheeks,  kissed  a  dead  child. 

XIX 

I 

In  the  train  from  Bristol  to  Paddington  for  the  last  time: 
July,  eigh teen-eighty. 

She  would  never  see  any  of  them  again:  Ada  and  Ger- 


146  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

aldine;  Mabel  and  Florrie  and  little  Lena  and  Kate;  Miss 
Wray  with  her  pale  face  and  angr^^  eyes;  never  hear  her 
sudden,  cold,  delicious  praise.  Never  see  the  bare,  oblong 
schoolroom  with  the  brown  desks,  seven  rows  across  for 
the  lower  school,  one  long  form  along  the  wall  for  Class  One 
where  she  and  Ada  and  Geraldine  sat  apart.  Never  look 
through  the  bay  window^s  over  the  lea  to  the  Channel,  at 
sunset,  Lundy  Island  flattened  out,  floating,  gold  on  gold 
in  the  offing.  Never  see  magenta  valerian  growing  in  hot 
white  grey  walls. 

Never  hear  Louie  Prichard  straining  the  little  music  room 
with  Chopin's  Fontana  Polonaise.  Never  breathe  in  its 
floor-dust  with  the  Adagio  of  the  "  Pathetic  Sonata." 

She  was  glad  she  had  seen  it  through  to  the  end  when  the 
clergymen's  and  squires'  daughters  went  and  the  daughters 
of  Bristol  drapers  and  publicans  and  lodging-house  keepers 
came. 

("What  do  you  think!  Bessie  Parson's  brother  marked 
all  her  underclothing.     In  the  shop!  ") 

But  they  taught  you  quite  a  lot  of  things:  Zoology, 
Physiology,  Paley's  Evidences,  British  Law,  Political 
Economy.  It  had  been  a  wonderful  school  when  Mrs.  Pro- 
part's  nieces  went  to  it.  And  they  kept  all  that  up  when 
the  smash  came  and  the  butter  gave  out,  and  you  ate  cheap 
bread  that  tasted  of  alum,  and  potatoes  that  were  fibrous 
skeletons  in  a  green  pulp.  Oh  —  she  had  seen  it  through. 
A  whole  year  and  a  half  of  it. 

Why?  Because  you  promised  Mamma  you'd  stick  to  the 
Clevehead  School  whatever  it  was  like?  Because  they  taught 
you  German  and  let  you  learn  Greek  by  yourself  with  the  old 
arithmetic  master?  (Ada  Clark  said  it  was  a  mean  trick  to 
get  more  marks.)  Because  of  the  Beethoven  and  Schumann 
and  Chopin,  and  Lundy  Island,  and  the  valerian?  Because 
nothing  mattered,  not  even  going  hungry? 

She  was  glad  she  hadn't  told  about  that,  nor  why  she 
asked  for  the  "  room  to  herself  "  that  turned  out  to  be  a 
servants'  garret  on  a  deserted  floor.  You  could  wake  at 
five  o'clock  in  the  light  mornings  and  read  Plato,  or  snatch 
twenty  minutes  from  undressing  before  Miss  Payne  came 
for  your  candle.     The  tall  sycamore  swayed  in  the  moon- 


ADOLESCENCE  147 

light,  tapping  on  tlie  window  pane;  its  shadow  moved  softly 
in  the  room  like  a  ghost. 

II 

She  would  like  to  see  the  valerian  again,  though.  Mamma 
said  it  didn't  grow  in  Yorkshire. 

Funny  to  be  going  back  to  II ford  after  Roddy  and  Papa 
and  Mamma  had  left  it.  Funny  to  be  staying  at  Five  Elms 
with  Uncle  Victor.  Nice  Uncle  Victor,  bujdng  the  house 
from  Papa  and  making  Dan  live  with  them.  That  was  to 
keep  him  from  drinking.  Uncle  Victor  was  hurt  because 
Papa  and  Mamma  would  go  to  Morfe  when  he  wanted  you 
all  to  live  with  him.  But  you  couldn't  imagine  Emilius  and 
Victor  living  together  or  Mamma  and  Aunt  Lavvy. 

Bristol  to  Paddington.  This  time  next  week  it  would  be 
King's  Cross  to  Reyburn  for  Morfe. 

She  wondered  what  it  would  be  like.  Aunt  Bella  said  it 
was  a  dead-and-alive  place.  Morfe  —  Morfe.  It  did 
sound  rather  as  if  people  died  in  it.  Aunt  Bella  was  angry 
with  Mrs.  Waugh  and  Miss  Frewin  for  making  Mamma  go 
there.  But  Aunt  Bella  had  never  liked  Mrs.  Waugli  and 
Miss  Frewin.  That  was  because  they  had  been  Mamma's 
friends  at  school  and  not  Aunt  Bella's. 

She  wondered  what  they  would  be  like,  and  whether  they 
would  disapprove  of  her.  They  would  if  they  believed  she 
had  been  expelled  from  Dover  and  had  broken  Mamma's 
heart.     All  Mamma's  friends  thought  that. 

She  didn't  mind  going  to  Morfe  so  much.  The  awful 
thing  was  leaving  Ilford.  Ilford  was  part  of  Mark,  part  of 
her,  part  of  her  and  Mark  together.  There  were  things  they 
had  done  that  never  in  all  their  lives  they  could  do  again 
Waldteufel  Waltzes  played  on  the  old  Cramer  piano,  stand- 
ing in  its  place  by  the  door,  waltzes  that  would  never  sound 
the  same  in  any  other  place  in  any  other  room.  And  there 
was  the  sumach  tree.     It  would  die  if  you  transplanted  it. 

Ill 

The  little  thin,  sallow  old  man,  coming  towards  her  on 
the  platform  at  Paddington,  turned  out  to  be  Uncle  Victor. 


148  MARY   OLIVIER:    A    LIFE 

She  had  not  seen  him  since  Christmas,  for  at  Easter  he  had 
been  away  somewhere  on  business. 

He  came  slowly,  showing  a  smile  of  jerked  muscles,  under 
cold  fixed  eyes.  He  was  not  really  glad  to  see  her.  That 
was  because  he  disapproved  of  her.  They  all  believed  she 
had  been  expelled  from  the  Dover  school,  and  they  didn't 
seem  able  to  forget  it.  Going  down  from  Liverpool  Street 
to  Ilford  he  sat  bowed  and  dejected  in  his  corner,  not  look- 
ing at  her  unless  he  could  help  it. 

"How's  Aunt  Charlotte?"  She  thought  he  would  be 
pleased  to  think  that  she  had  remembered  Aunt  Charlotte; 
but  he  winced  as  if  she  had  hit  him. 

"  She  is  —  not  so  well."  And  then:  "  How  have  you  been 
getting  on?  " 

"  Oh,  all  right.  I've  got  the  Literature  prize  again,  and 
the  French  prize  and  the  German  prize;  and  I  might  have 
got  the  Good  Conduct  prize  too." 

"  And  why  didn't  you  get  it?  " 

"  Because  I  gave  it  up.  Somebody  else  had  to  have  a 
prize,  and  Miss  Wray  said  she  knew  it  was  the  one  I  could 
best  bear  to  part  with." 

Uncle  Victor  frowned  as  if  he  were  displeased. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  consider  that  I  gave  it  up,"  she  said. 
But  he  had  turned  his  eyes  away.  He  wasn't  listening  any 
more,  as  he  used  to  listen. 

The  train  was  passing  the  City  of  London  Cemetery. 
She  thought:  "  I  must  go  and  see  Jenny's  grave  before  I 
leave.  I  wish  I  hadn't  teased  her  so  to  love  me."  She 
thought:  "  If  I  die  I  shall  be  put  in  the  grass  plot  beside 
Grandpapa  and  Grandmamma  Olivier.  Papa  will  bring  me 
in  a  coffin  all  the  way  from  Morfe  in  the  train."  Little  birch 
bushes  were  beginning  to  grow  among  the  graves.  She  won- 
dered how  she  could  ever  have  been  afraid  of  those  graves 
and  of  their  dead. 

Uncle  Victor  was  looking  at  the  graves  too ;  queerly,  with 
a  sombre,  passionate  interest.  When  the  train  had  passed 
them  he  sighed  and  shut  his  eyes,  as  if  he  wanted  to  keep 
on  seeing  them  —  to  keep  on. 

As  Mr.  Parish's  wagonette  drove  up  Ley  Street  he  pointed 
to  a  field  where  a  street  of  little  houses  had  begun. 


ADOLESCENCE  149 

"  Some  day  they'll  run  a  street  over  Five  Elms.  But  I 
shan't  know  anything  about  it,"  he  said. 

"  No.    It  won't  be  for  ages." 

He  smiled  qucerly. 

They  drew  up  at  the  gate.  "  You  must  be  prepared  for 
more  changes,"  he  said. 

Aunt  Lavvy  was  at  the  gate.  She  was  sweet  as  if  she 
loved  you,  and  sad  as  if  she  still  remembered  your  disgrace. 

"  No.     Not  that  door,"  she  said. 

The  dining-room  and  drawing-room  had  changed  places, 
and  both  were  filled  with  the  large  mahogany  furniture  that 
had  belonged  to  Grandpapa. 

"  Why,  3^ou've  turned  it  back  to  front." 

Strips  of  Mamma's  garden  shone  between  the  dull  maroon 
red  curtains.     Inside  the  happy  light  was  dead. 

There  seemed  to  her  something  sinister  about  this  change. 
Only  the  two  spare  rooms  still  looked  to  the  front.  They 
had  put  her  in  one  of  them  instead  of  her  old  room  on  the 
top  floor;  Dan  had  the  other  instead  of  his.  It  was  very 
queer. 

Aunt  Lawy  sat  in  Mamma's  place  at  the  head  of  the 
tea-table.  A  tall,  iron-grey  woman  in  an  iron-grey  gown 
stood  at  her  elbow  holding  a  little  tray.  She  looked 
curiously  at  Mary,  as  if  her  appearance  there  surprised  and 
interested  her.     Aunt  Lavvy  put  a  cup  of  tea  on  the  tray. 

"  Where's  Aunt  Charlotte?  " 

"  Aunt  Charlotte  is  upstairs.     She  isn't  very  well." 

The  maid  was  saying,  "  Miss  Charlotte  asked  for  a  large 
piece  of  plum  cake,  ma'am,"  and  Aunt  Lavvy  added  a  large 
piece  of  plum  cake  to  the  plate  of  thin  bread  and  butter. 

Mary  thought:  "  There  can't  be  much  the  matter  with 
her  if  she  can  eat  all  that." 

"  Can  I  see  her?  "  she  said. 

She  heard  the  woman  whisper,  "  Better  not."  She  was 
glad  when  she  left  the  room. 

"  Has  old  Louisa  gone,  then?  " 

"  No,"  Aunt  Lavvy  said.  She  added  presently,  "  That  is 
Aunt  Charlotte's  maid." 


150  MARY    OLIVIER:     A    LIFE 


IV 

Aunt  Charlotte  looked  out  through  the  bars  of  the  old 
nursery  window.  She  nodded  to  Mary  and  called  to  her  to 
come  up. 

Aunt  Lav\^  said  it  did  her  good  to  see  people. 

There  was  a  door  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  in  a  match- 
board partition  that  walled  the  well  of  the  staircase.  You 
rang  a  bell.  The  corridor  was  very  dark.  Another  partition 
with  a  door  in  it  shut  off  the  servants'  rooms  and  the  back 
staircase.  They  had  put  the  big  yellow  linen  cupboard 
before  the  tall  window,  the  one  she  used  to  hang  out  of. 

Some  of  the  old  things  had  been  left  in  the  nursery  school- 
room, so  that  it  looked  much  the  same.  Britton,  the  maid, 
sat  in  Jenny's  low  chair  by  the  fireguard.  Aunt  Charlotte 
sat  in  an  armchair  by  the  window. 

Her  face  was  thin  and  small;  the  pencil  lines  had  deep- 
ened; the  long  black  curls  hung  from  a  puff  of  grey  hair 
rolled  back  above  her  ears.  Her  eyes  pointed  at  you  — 
pointed.  They  had  more  than  ever  their  look  of  wisdom  and 
excitement.  She  was  twisting  and  untwisting  a  string  of 
white  tulle  round  a  sprig  of  privet  flower. 

"  Don't  you  believe  a  word  of  it,"  she  said.  "  Your  father 
hasn't  gone.  He's  here  in  this  house.  He's  in  when  Vic- 
tor's out. 

''  He  says  he's  sold  the  house  to  Victor.  That's  a  lie. 
He  doesn't  want  it  known  that  he's  hidden  me  here  to 
prevent  my  getting  married." 

"  I'm  sure  he  hasn't,"  Mary  said.  Across  the  room  Brit- 
ton looked  at  her  and  shook  her  head. 

"  It's  all  part  of  a  plan,"  Aunt  Charlotte  said.  "  To  put 
me  away,  my  dear.  Dr.  Draper's  in  it  with  Victor  and 
Emilius. 

"  They  may  say  what  they  like.  It  isn't  the  piano-tuner. 
It  isn't  the  man  who  does  the  clocks.  They  know  who  it  is. 
It  isn't  that  Marriott  man.  I've  found  out  something  about 
him  they  don't  know.  He's  got  a  false  stomach.  It  goes 
by  clockwork. 

"  As  if  I'd  look  at  a  clock-tuner  or  a  piano-winder.  I 
wouldn't,  would  I,  Britton?  " 


ADOLESCENCE  151 

She  meditated,  smiling  softly.  "  They  make  them  so 
beautifully  now,  you  can't  tell  the  difference. 

''  He's  been  to  see  me  nine  times  in  one  week.  Nine 
times.  But  your  Uncle  Victor  got  him  away  before  he 
could  speak.  But  he  came  again  and  again.  He  wouldn't 
take  '  No  '  for  an  answer.  Britton,  how  many  times  did 
Mr.  Jourdain  come?  " 

Britton  said,  "  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  say,  Miss  Charlotte." 
She  made  a  sign  to  Mary  to  go. 

Aunt  Lav\y  was  waiting  for  her  at  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
She  took  her  into  her  bedroom,  Mamma's  old  room,  and 
asked  her  what  Aunt  Charlotte  had  said.     Mary  told  her. 

"  Poor  Mary  —  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  you  see  her." 

Aunt  Lavvy's  chin  trembled.  "  I'm  afraid,"  she  said, 
"the  removal's  upset  her.  I  said  it  would.  But  Emilius 
would  have  it.  He  could  always  make  Victor  do  what  he 
wanted." 

"  It  might  have  been  something  you  don't  know  about." 

Grown-up  and  strong,  she  wanted  to  comfort  Aunt  Lavvy 
and  protect  her. 

"  No,"  Aunt  Lav\y  said.  "  It's  the  house.  I  knew  it 
would  be.  She's  been  trying  to  get  away.  She  never  did 
that  before." 

(The  doors  and  the  partitions,  the  nursery  and  its  bars, 
the  big  cupboard  across  the  window,  to  keep  her  from  get- 
ting away.) 

"  Aunt  Lawy,  did  Mr.  Jourdain  really  call?  " 

Aunt  Lavvy  hesitated.     "  Yes.    He  called." 

"  Did  he  see  Aunt  Charlotte?  " 

"  She  was  in  the  room  when  he  came  in,  but  your  uncle 
took  him  out  at  once." 

''  She  didn't  talk  to  him?    Did  he  hear  her  talking?  " 

"  No,  my  dear,  I'm  sure  he  didn't." 

"  Are  you  sure  he  didn't  see  her?  " 

Aunt  Lavvy  smiled.  "  He  didn't  look.  I  don't  think  he 
saw  any  of  us  very  clearly." 

"  How  many  times  did  he  come?  " 

"  Three  or  four  times,  I  believe." 

"  Did  he  ask  to  see  me?  " 

"  No.    He  asked  to  see  your  Uncle  Victor." 


152  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  I  didn't  know  he  knew  Uncle  Victor." 

"  Well,"  Aunt  Lavvy  said,  "  he  knows  him  now." 

"  Did  he  leave  any  message  for  me?  " 

"  No.     None." 

"  You  don't  like  him,  Aunt  Lavvy." 

"  No,  Mary,  I  do  not.  And  I  don't  know  anybody  who 
does." 

"  I  like  him,"  Mary  said. 

Aunt  Lavvy  looked  as  if  she  hadn't  heard.  "  I  oughtn't 
to  have  let  you  see  Aunt  Charlotte." 


Mary  woke  up  suddenly.  It  was  her  third  night  in  the 
spare  room  at  Five  Elms. 

She  had  dreamed  that  she  saw  Aunt  Charlotte  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  basement  stairs,  by  the  cat's  cupboard 
where  the  kittens  were  born,  taking  her  clothes  off  and 
hiding  them.  She  had  seen  that  before.  When  she  was  six 
years  old.  She  didn't  know  whether  she  had  been  dreaming 
about  something  that  had  really  happened,  or  about  a 
dream.  Only,  this  time,  she  saw  Aunt  Charlotte  open  her 
mouth  and  scream.     The  scream  woke  her. 

She  remembered  her  mother  and  Aunt  Bertha  in  the 
drawing-room,  talking,  their  faces  together.  That  wasn't 
a  dream. 

There  was  a  sound  of  feet  overhead.  Uncle  Victor's 
room.  A  sound  of  a  door  opening  and  shutting.  And  then 
a  scream,  muffled  by  the  shut  door.  Her  heart  checked; 
turned  sickeningly.     She  hadn't  dreamed  that. 

Uncle  Victor  shouted  down  the  stair  to  Dan.  She  could 
hear  Dan's  feet  in  the  next  room  and  his  door  opening. 

The  screaming  began  again:  "I-ihh!  I-ihh!  I-ihh!  " 
Up  and  up,  tearing  your  brain.  Then:  '' Aah-a-o-oh!  " 
Tearing  your  heart  out.  "  Aa-h-a-o-oh!  "  and  "  Ahh-ahh!  " 
Short  and  sharp. 

She  threw  off  the  bed-clothes,  and  went  out  to  the  foot 
of  the  stairs.  The  cries  had  stopped.  There  was  a  sound 
of  feet  staggering  and  shuffling.     Somebody  being  carried. 

Dan  came  back  down  the  stair.    His  trousers  were  drawn 


ADOLESCENCE  153 

up  over  his  night-shirt,  the  braces  hanging.  He  was  suck- 
ing the  back  of  his  hand  and  spitting  the  blood  out  on  to 
his  sleeve. 

"Dan  — was  that  Aunt  Charlotte?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Was  it  pain?  " 

"  No."  He  was  out  of  breath.  She  could  see  his  night- 
shirt shake  with  the  beating  of  his  heart. 

"  Have  you  hurt  your  hand?  " 

"  No." 

"  Can  I  do  anything?  " 

"  No.    Go  back  to  bed.    She's  all  right  now." 

She  went  back.  Presently  she  heard  him  leave  his  room 
and  go  upstairs  again.  The  bolt  of  the  front  door  squeaked; 
then  the  hinge  of  the  gate.  Somebody  going  out.  She  fell 
asleep. 

The  sound  of  hoofs  and  wheels  woke  her.  The  room  was 
light.  She  got  up  and  went  to  the  open  window.  Dr. 
Draper's  black  brougham  stood  at  the  gate. 

The  sun  blazed,  tree-high,  on  the  fiat  mangold  field  across 
the  road.  The  green  leaves  had  the  cold  glitter  of  wet, 
pointed  metal.  To  the  north-east  a  dead  smear  of  dawn. 
The  brougham  didn't  look  like  itself,  standing  still  in  that 
unearthly  light.  As  if  it  were  taking  part  in  a  funeral,  the 
funeral  of  some  dreadful  death.  She  put  on  her  dressing- 
gown  and  waited,  looking  out.  She  had  to  look.  Down- 
stairs the  hall  clock  struck  a  half-hour. 

The  front  door  opened.  Britton  came  out  first.  Then 
Aunt  Charlotte,  between  Uncle  Victor  and  Dr.  Draper. 
They  were  holding  her  up  by  her  arm-pits,  half  leading,  half 
pushing  her  before  them.  Her  feet  made  a  brushing  noise 
on  the  flagstones. 

They  lifted  her  into  the  brougham  and  placed  themselves 
one  on  each  side  of  her.  Then  Britton  got  in,  and  they 
drove  off. 

A  string  of  white  tulle  lay  on  the  garden  path. 


END    OF    BOOK    THREE 


BOOK   FOUR 

MATURITY 
1879-1900 


BOOK  FOUR 

MATURITY 
XX 


The  scent  of  hay  came  tlirough  the  open  window  of  her 
room.  Clearer  and  finer  than  the  hay  smell  of  the  Essex 
fields. 

She  shut  her  eyes  to  live  purely  in  that  one  sweet  sense; 
and  opened  them  to  look  at  the  hill,  the  great  hill  heaved 
up  against  the  east. 

You  had  to  lean  far  out  of  the  window  to  see  it  all.  It 
came  on  from  the  hidden  north,  its  top  straight  as  a  wall 
against  the  sky.  Then  the  long  shoulder,  falling  and  falling. 
Then  the  thick  trees.  A  further  hill  cut  the  trees  off  from 
the  sky. 

Roddy  was  saying  something.  Sprawling  out  from  the 
corner  of  the  window-seat,  he  stared  with  sulky,  unseeing 
eyes  into  the  little  room. 

"  Roddy,  what  did  you  say  that  hill  was?  " 

"  Greffington  Edge.    You  aren't  listening." 

His  voice  made  a  jagged  tear  in  the  soft,  quiet  evening. 

"  And  the  one  beyond  it?  " 

"  Sarrack.    Why  can't  you  listen?  " 

Greffington  Edge.     Sarrack.     Sarrack. 

Green  fields  coming  on  from  the  north,  going  up  and  up, 
netted  in  with  the  strong  net  of  the  low  grey  walls  that  held 
them  together,  that  kept  them  safe.  Above  them  thin  grass, 
a  green  bloom  on  the  grey  face  of  the  hill.  Above  the  thin 
grass  a  rampart  of  grey  cliffs. 

157 


158  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Roddy  wouldn't  look  at  the  hill. 

"  I  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  you'll  loathe  the  place  when  you've 
lived  a  week  in  it." 

The  thick,  rich  trees  were  trying  to  climb  the  Edge,  but 
they  couldn't  get  higher  than  the  netted  fields. 

The  lean,  ragged  firs  had  succeeded.  No.  Not  quite. 
They  stood  out  against  the  sky,  adventurous  mountaineers, 
roped  together,  leaning  forward  with  the  effort. 

"  It's  Mamma's  fault,"  Roddy  was  saying.  "  Papa  would 
have  gone  anywhere,  but  she  would  come  to  this  damned 
Morfe." 

"Don't.  Don't — "  Her  mind  beat  him  off,  defending 
her  happiness.  He  would  kill  it  if  she  let  him.  Coming  up 
from  Reyburn  on  the  front  seat  of  the  Morfe  bus,  he  had 
sulked.  He  smiled  disagreeable  smiles  while  the  driver 
pointed  with  his  whip  and  told  her  the  names  of  the  places. 
Renton  Moor.  Renton  Church.  Morfe,  the  grey  village, 
stuck  up  on  its  green  platform  under  the  high,  purple  mound 
of  Karva  Hill. 

Garthdale  in  front  of  it,  Rathdale  at  its  side,  meeting  in 
the  fields  below  its  bridge. 

Morfe  was  beautiful.  She  loved  it  with  love  at  first  sight, 
faithless  to  Ilford. 

Straight,  naked  houses.  Grey  walls  of  houses,  enclosing 
the  wide  olDlong  Green.  Dark  grey  stone  roofs,  close-clipped 
lest  the  wind  should  lift  them.  On  the  Green  two  grey  stone 
pillar  fountains;  a  few  wooden  benches;  telegraph  poles. 
Under  her  window  a  white  road  curling  up  to  the  platform. 
Straight,  naked  houses,  zigzagging  up  beside  it.  Down 
below,  where  the  white  road  came  from,  the  long  grey  raking 
bridge,  guarded  by  a  tall  ash-tree. 

Roddy's  jabbing  voice  went  on  and  on: 

"  I  used  to  think  Mamma  was  holy  and  unselfish.  I  don't 
think  so  any  more.  She  says  she  wants  to  do  what  Papa 
wants  and  what  we  want;  but  she  always  ends  by  doing 
what  she  wants  herself.  It's  all  very  well  for  her.  As  long 
as  she's  got  a  garden  to  poke  about  in  she  doesn't  care  how 
awful  it  is  for  us." 

She  hated  Roddy  when  he  said  things  like  that  about 
Mamma. 


MATURITY  159 

"  I  don't  suppose  the  little  lamb  thought  about  it  at  all. 
Or  if  she  did  she  thought  we'd  like  it." 

She  didn't  want  to  listen  to  Roddy's  grumbling.  She 
wanted  to  look  and  look,  to  sniff  up  the  clear,  sweet,  exciting 
smell  of  the  fields. 

The  roofs  went  criss-crossing  up  the  road  —  straight  — 
slant  —  straight.  They  threw  delicate  violet-green  shadows 
on  to  the  sage-green  field  below.  That  long  violet-green  pil- 
lar was  the  shadow  of  the  ash-tree  by  the  bridge. 

The  light  came  from  somewhere  behind  the  village,  from  a 
sunset  you  couldn't  sec.  It  made  the  smooth  hill  fields  shine 
like  thin  velvet,  stretched  out,  clinging  to  the  hills. 

"  Oh,  Roddy,  the  light's  different.  Different  from  Ilford. 
Look—" 

"  I've  been  looking  for  five  weeks,"  Roddy  said.  "  You 
haven't,  that's  all.     /  was  excited  at  first." 

He  got  up.  He  stared  out  of  the  window,  not  seeing  any- 
thing. 

"  I  didn't  mean  what  I  said  about  Mamma.  Morfe  makes 
you  say  things.    Soon  it'll  make  you  mean  them.    You  wait." 

She  was  glad  when  he  had  left  her. 

The  cliffs  of  Greffington  Edge  were  violet  now. 


n 

At  night,  when  she  lay  in  bed  in  the  strange  room,  the 
Essex  fields  began  to  haunt  her;  the  five  trees,  the  little 
flying  trees,  low  down,  low  down ;  the  straight,  narrow  paths 
through  the  corn,  where  she  walked  with  Mark,  with  Jimmy, 
with  Mr.  Jourdain;  Mr.  Jourdain,  standing  in  the  path  and 
saying:  "  Talk  to  me.    I'm  alive.    I'm  here.    I'll  listen." 

Mark  and  Mamma  planting  the  sumach  tree  by  the  front 
door;  Papa  saying  it  wouldn't  grow.  It  had  grown  up  to 
the  dining-room  window-sill. 

Aunt  Bella  and  Uncle  Edward;  the  Proparts  and  the 
Farmers  and  Mr.  Batty,  all  stiff  and  disapproving;  not 
nearly  so  nice  to  you  as  they  used  to  be  and  making  you 
believe  it  was  your  fault. 

The  old,  beautiful  drawing-room.     The  piano  by  the  door. 


160  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Dan  staggering  down  the  room  at  Mark's  party.  Mark 
holding  her  there,  in  his  arms. 

Dawn,  and  Dr.  Draper's  carriage  waiting  in  the  road  be- 
side the  mangold  fields.  And  Aunt  Charlotte  carried  out, 
her  feet  brushing  the  flagstones. 

She  mustn't  tell  them.  Mamma  couldn't  bear  it.  Roddy 
couldn't  bear  it.  Aunt  Charlotte  was  Papa's  sister.  He 
must  never  know. 

The  sound  of  the  brushing  feet  made  her  heart  ache. 

She  was  glad  to  wake  in  the  small,  strange  room.  It  had 
taken  a  snip  off  Mamma's  and  Papa's  room  on  one  side  of 
the  window,  and  a  snip  off  the  spare  room  on  the  •  other. 
That  made  it  a  funny  T  shape.  She  slept  in  the  tail  of  the 
T,  in  a  narrow  bed  pushed  against  the  wall.  When  you  sat 
up  you  saw  the  fat  trees  trying  to  get  up  the  hill  between 
the  washstand  and  the  chest  of  drawers. 

This  room  would  never  be  taken  from  her,  because  she 
was  the  only  one  who  was  small  enough  to  fit  the  bed. 

She  would  be  safe  there  with  her  hill. 

Ill 

The  strange  houses  fascinated  her.  They  had  the  sim- 
plicity and  the  precision  of  houses  in  a  very  old  engraving. 

On  the  west  side  of  the  Green  they  made  a  long  straight 
wall.  Morfe  High  Row.  An  open  space  of  cobblestones 
stretched  in  front  of  it.     The  market-place. 

Sharp  morning  light  picked  out  the  small  black  panes  of 
the  windows  in  the  white  criss-cross  of  their  frames,  and  the 
long  narrow  signs  of  the  King's  Head  and  the  Farmer's 
Arms,  black  on  grey.  The  plaster  joints  of  the  walls  and 
the  dark  net  of  earth  between  the  cobbles  showed  thick  and 
clear  as  in  a  very  old  engraving.  The  west  side  had  the 
sky  behind  it  and  the  east  side  had  the  hill. 

Grey-white  cart  roads  slanted  across  the  Green,  cutting 
it  into  vivid  triangular  grass-plots.  You  went  in  and  out  of 
Morfe  through  the  open  corners  of  its  Green.  Her  father's 
house  stood  at  the  south-west  corner,  by  itself.  A  projecting 
wing  at  that  end  of  the  High  Row  screened  it  from  the 
market-place. 


MATURITY  161 

The  strange  houses  excited  her. 

Wonderful,  unknown  people  lived  in  them.  You  would 
see  them  and  know  what  they  were  like:  the  people  in  the 
tall  house  with  the  rusty  stones,  in  the  bright  green  ivy 
house  with  tlie  white  doors,  in  the  small  grey,  humble  houses, 
in  the  big,  important  house  set  at  the  top  of  the  Green,  with 
the  three  long  rows  of  windows,  the  front  garden  and  the 
iron  gate. 

People  you  didn't  know.  You  would  be  strange  and  ex- 
citing to  them  as  they  were  strange  and  exciting  to  you. 
They  might  say  interesting  things.  There  might  be  some- 
body who  cared  about  Plato  and  Spinoza. 

Things  would  happen  that  you  didn't  know.  Anything 
might  happen  any  minute. 

If  you  knew  what  was  happening  in  the  houses  now  — 
some  of  them  had  hard,  frightening  faces.  Dreadful  things 
might  have  happened  in  them.  Her  father's  house  had  a 
good,  simple  face.    You  could  trust  it. 

Five  windows  in  the  rough  grey  wall,  one  on  each  side 
of  the  white  door,  three  above.  A  garden  at  the  side,  an 
orchard  at  the  back.  In  front  a  cobbled  square  marked  off 
by  a  line  of  thin  stones  set  in  edgeways. 

A  strange  house,  innocent  of  unhappy  memories. 

Catty  stood  at  the  door,  looking  for  her.  She  called  to 
her  to  come  in  to  breakfast. 


IV 

Papa  was  moving  restlessly  about  the  house.  His  loose 
slippers  shuffled  on  the  stone  flags  of  the  passages. 

Catty  stopped  gathering  up  the  breakfast  cups  to  listen. 

Catty  was  not  what  she  used  to  be.  Her  plump  cheeks 
were  sunk  and  flattened.  Some  day  she  would  look  like 
Jenny. 

Papa  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  looked  round  the  small 
dining-room  as  if  he  were  still  puzzled  by  its  strangeness. 
Papa  was  not  what  he  used  to  be.  A  streak  of  grey  hair 
showed  above  each  ear.  Grey  patches  in  his  brown  beard. 
Scarlet  smears  in  the  veined  sallow  of  his  eyes.  His  burst- 
ing, violent  life  had  gone.     He  went  stooping  and  shuffling. 

M 


162  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

The  house  was  too  small  for  Papa.  He  turned  in  it  as  a  dog 
turns  in  his  kennel,  feeling  for  a  place  to  stretch  himself. 

He  said,  "  Where's  your  mother?     I  want  her." 

Mary  went  to  find  her. 

She  knew  the  house:  the  flagged  passage  from  the  front 
door.  The  dining-room  on  the  right.  The  drawing-room 
on  the  left.  In  there  the  chairs  and  tables  drew  together 
to  complain  of  Morfe.  View  of  the  blacksmith's  house  and 
yard  from  the  front  window.  From  the  side  window 
Mamma's  garden.  Green  grass-plot.  Trees  at  the  far  end. 
Flowers  in  the  borders:  red  roses,  cream  roses,  Canterbury 
bells,  white  and  purple,  under  the  high  walls.  In  a  comer 
an  elder  bush  frothing  greenish  white  on  green. 

Behind  the  dining-room  Papa's  tight  den.  Stairs  where 
the  passage  turned  to  the  left  behind  the  drawing-room. 
Glass  door  at  the  end,  holding  the  green  of  the  garden, 
splashed  with  purple,  white  and  red.  The  kitchen  here  in  a 
back  wing  like  a  rough  barn  run  out  into  the  orchard. 

Upstairs  Catty's  and  Cook's  room  in  the  wing;  Papa's 
dressing-room  above  the  side  passage;  Roddy's  room  above 
Papa's  den.  Then  the  three  rooms  in  front.  The  one  above 
the  drawing-room  was  nearly  filled  with  the  yellow  birch- 
wood  wardrobe  and  bed.  The  emerald  green  of  the  damask 
was  fading  into  the  grey. 

Her  mother  was  there,  sitting  in  the  window-seat,  reading 
the  fourteenth  chapter  of  St.  John. 

"Let  not  your  heart  be  troubled:  ye  believe  in  God, 
believe  also  in  me.  In  my  Father's  house  are  many 
mansions  —  " 

Mamma  was  different,  too,  as  if  she  had  shrunk  through 
living  in  the  cramped  rooms.  She  raised  her  head.  The  head 
of  a  wounded  bird,  very  gentle. 

"  Why  are  you  sitting  up  here  all  alone?  " 

"  Because  sometimes  I  want  to  be  alone." 

"  Shall  I  spoil  the  aloneness?  " 

"  Not  if  you're  a  good  girl  and  keep  quiet." 

Mary  sat  on  the  bed  and  waited  till  the  chapter  should 
be  ended. 

She  thought:  "  She  talks  to  me  still  as  though  I  were  a 
child.    What  would  she  say  if  I  told  her  about  Aunt  Char- 


MATURITY  1G3 

lotte?  She  wouldn't  know  what  it  was  really  like.  She 
wasn't  there. 

"  I  shall  never  tell  her." 

She  was  thrilled  at  the  thought  of  her  grown-up  hardness, 
her  grown-up  silence,  keeping  her  motlier  safe. 

Mamma  looked  up  and  smiled;  the  chapter  was  ended; 
they  went  downstairs. 

Papa  stood  in  the  doorway  of  his  den  and  called  to 
Mamma  in  a  queer  low  voice. 

The  letters  — 

She  went  into  the  dining-room  and  waited  —  ten  minutes 
—  twenty. 

Her  mother  came  to  her  there.  She  sat  down  in  her  arm- 
chair by  the  window-seat  where  the  old  work-basket  stood 
piled  with  socks  ready  for  darning.  She  took  a  sock  and 
drew  it  over  her  hand,  stretching  it  to  find  the  worn  places. 
Mary  took  its  fellow  and  began  to  darn  it.  The  coarse  wool, 
scraping  her  finger-tips,  sent  through  her  a  little  light,  creep- 
ing, disagreeable  shock. 

She  was  afraid  to  look  at  her  mother's  face. 

"  Well,  Mary  —  poor  Aunt  Charlotte  might  have  been  car- 
ried away  in  her  coffin,  and  we  shouldn't  have  known  if  it 
had  been  left  to  you  to  tell  us." 

"  I  didn't  because  I  thought  it  would  frighten  you." 

Mamma  was  not  frightened.  They  couldn't  have  told  her 
what  it  was  really  like. 

Papa's  slippers  shuffled  in  the  passage.  Mamma  left  off 
darning  to  listen  as  Catty  had  listened. 


On  Greffington  Edge. 

Roddy  was  looking  like  Mark,  with  his  eyes  very  steady 
and  his  mouth  firm  and  proud.  His  face  was  red  as  if  he 
were  angry.  That  was  when  he  saw  the  tall  man  coming 
towards  them  down  the  hill  road. 

Roddy  walked  slowly,  trying  not  to  meet  him  at  the 
cattle-gate.  The  tall  man  walked  faster,  and  they  met. 
Roddy  opened  the  gate. 


164  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

The  tall  man  thanked  him,  said  "  Good  day,"  looked  at 
her  as  he  passed  through,  then  stopped. 

"  My  sister  —  Mr.  Sutcliffe." 

Mr.  Sutcliffe,  handsome  with  his  boney,  high-jointed  nose 
and  narrow  jaw,  thrust  out,  incongruously  fierce,  under  his 
calm,  clean  upper  lip,  shaved  to  show  how  beautiful  it  was. 
His  black  blue  eyes  were  set  as  carefully  in  their  lids  as  a 
woman's.  He  wore  his  hair  rather  long.  One  lock  had  got 
loose  and  hung  before  his  ear  like  a  high  whisker. 

He  was  asking  Roddy  when  he  was  coming  to  play  tennis, 
and  whether  his  sister  played.  They  might  turn  up  to- 
morrow. 

The  light  played  on  his  curling,  handsome  smile.  He 
hoped  she  liked  Rathdale. 

"  She  only  came  yesterday,"  Roddy  said. 

"  Well  —  come  along  to-morrow.  About  four  o'clock.  I'll 
tell  my  wife." 

And  Roddy  said,  "  Thanks,"  as  if  it  choked  him. 

Mr.  Sutcliffe  went  on  down  the  hill. 

''  We  can't  go,"  Roddy  said. 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  Well  —  " 

"  Let's.  He  looked  so  nice,  and  he  sounded  as  if  he  really 
wanted  us." 

"  He  doesn't.  He  can't.  You  don't  know  what's  hap- 
pened." 

"  Has  anything  happened?  " 

"  Yes.  I  don't  want  to  tell  you,  but  you'll  have  to  know. 
It  happened  at  the  Sutcliffes'." 

"  Who  are  the  Sutcliffes?  " 

"  Greffington  Hall.  The  people  who  own  the  whole  ghastlv 
place.     We  were  dining  there.    And  Papa  was  funny." 

"  Funny?    Funny  what  way?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know. —  Like  Dan  was  at  Mark's  party.' 

"  Oh  Roddy  —  "     She  was  listening  now. 

"  Not  quite  so  awful ;  but  that  sort  of  thing.  We  had  to 
come  away." 

"  I  didn't  know  he  did." 

"  No  more  did  I.  Mamma  always  said  it  wasn't  that. 
But  it  was  this  time.    And  he  chose  that  evening." 


MATURITY  165 

"  Does  Mamma  mind  frightfully?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes.    But  she's  angry  with  the  Sutcliffes." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  they've  seen  him." 

"  How  many  Sutcliffes  are  there?  " 

"  Only  him  and  Mrs.  Sutcliffe.     The  son's  in  India. 

"  They'll  never  ask  him  again,  and  Mamma  won't  go 
without  him.  She  says  we  can  go  if  we  like,  but  you  can 
see  she'll  think  us  skunks  if  we  do." 

"Well  — then  we  can't." 

She  had  wanted  something  to  happen,  and  something  had 
happened,  som.ething  that  would  bring  unhappiness.  Un- 
happiness.  Her  will  rose  up,  hard  and  stubborn,  pushing 
it  off. 

"  Will  it  matter  so  very  much?  Do  the  Sutcliffes  matter?  " 

"  They  matter  this  much,  that  there  won't  be  anything 
to  do.  They've  got  all  the  shooting  and  fishing  and  the 
only  decent  tennis  court  in  the  place.  You  little  know  what 
you're  in  for." 

"  I  don't  care,  Roddy.  I  don't  care  a  bit  as  long  as  I 
have  you." 

"Me?    Me?" 

He  had  stopped  on  the  steep  of  the  road;  her  feet  had 
been  lagging  to  keep  pace  with  him.  He  breathed  hard 
through  white-edged  lips.  She  had  seen  him  look  like  that 
before.  The  day  they  had  walked  to  the  Thames,  to  look 
at  the  ships,  over  the  windy  Flats. 

He  looked  at  her.  A  look  she  hadn't  seen  before.  A  look 
of  passionate  unbelief. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  cared  about  me.  I  thought  it  was 
Mark  you  cared  about.     Like  Mamma." 

"  Can't  you  care  about  more  than  one  person?  " 

"  Mamma  can't —  " 

"  Oh  Roddy  —  " 

"  What's  the  good  of  saying  '  Oh  Roddy  '  when  you  know 
it?" 

They  were  sitting  on  a  ledge  of  stone  and  turf.  Roddy 
had  ceased  to  struggle  with  the  hill. 

"  We're  all  the  same,"  he  said.  "  I'd  give  you  and  Dan 
up  any  day  for  Mark.     Dan  would  give  up  you  and  me. 


166  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mark  would  give  up  all  of  us  for  Mamma.  And  Mamma 
would  give  up  all  of  us  for  Mark." 

Roddy  had  never  said  anything  like  that  before. 

"  I'll  stick  to  you,  anyhow,"  she  said. 

"  It's  no  use  your  sticking.  I  shan't  be  here.  I  shall 
have  to  clear  out  and  do  something,"  he  said. 

On  his  face  there  was  a  look  of  fear. 


VI 

She  was  excited  because  they  were  going  to  the  ivy  house 
for  tea.  It  looked  so  pretty  and  so  happy  with  its  green 
face  shining  in  the  sun.  Nothing  could  take  from  her  her 
belief  in  happiness  hiding  behind  certain  unknown  doors. 
It  hid  behind  the  white  doors  of  the  ivy  house.  When  you 
went  in  something  wonderful  would  happen. 

The  ivy  house  belonged  to  Mrs.  Waugh  and  Miss  Frewin. 

The  photographs  in  Mamma's  old  album  showed  how 
they  looked  when  they  and  Mamma  were  young.  Modest 
pose  of  dropped  arms,  holding  mushroom  hats  in  front  of 
them  as  a  protection,  the  narrow  ribbons  dangling  innocently. 
Ellen  Frewin,  small  and  upright,  slender  back  curved  in  to 
the  set  of  shawl  and  crinoline,  prim  head  fixed  in  the  com- 
posure of  gentle  disdain,  small  mouth  saying  always  ''  Oh." 
Meta,  the  younger  sister,  very  tall,  head  bent  in  tranquil 
meditation,  her  mantle  slanting  out  from  the  fall  of  the 
thin  shoulders. 

They  rose  up  in  the  small,  green  lighted  drawing-room. 
Their  heads  bent  forward  to  kiss. 

Ellen  Waugh:  the  photographed  face  still  keeping  its 
lifted  posture  of  gentle  disdain,  the  skin  stretched  like  a  pale 
tight  glove,  a  slight  downward  swelling  of  the  prim  oval, 
like  the  last  bulge  of  a  sucked  peppermint  ball,  the  faded 
mouth  still  making  its  small  "  oh."  She  was  the  widow  of 
a  clergyman. 

Meta,  a  beautiful  nose  leaping  out  at  you  in  a  high  curve ; 
narrow,  delicate  cheeks  thinned  away  so  that  they  seemed 
part  of  the  nose;  sweet  rodent  mouth  smiling  up  under  its 
tip;  blurred  violet  eyes  arching  vaguely. 

Princess  gowns  stiffened  their  shawl  and  crinoline  gestures. 


MATURITY  167 

"  So  this  is  Mary.  She's  not  like  her  mother,  Caroline. 
Meta,  can  you  sec  any  likeness?  " 

Miss  Frewin  arched  her  eyes  and  snailed,  without  looking 
at  you. 

"  I  can't  say  I  do." 

Their  heads  made  little  nodding  bows  as  they  talked. 
Miss  Frewin's  bow  was  sidelong  and  slow,  Mrs.  Waugh's 
straight  and  decisive. 

"  She's  not  like  Rodney,"  Mrs.  Waugh  said.  "  And  she's 
not  like  Emilius.     Who  is  she  like?  " 

Mary  answered.  "  I'm  rather  like  Dan  and  a  good  bit 
like  Mark.    But  I'm  most  of  all  like  myself." 

Mrs.  Waugh  said  "  Oh."  Her  mouth  went  on  saying  it 
while  she  looked  at  you. 

"  She  is  not  in  the  least  like  Mark,"  Mamma  said. 

They  settled  down,  one  on  each  side  of  Mamma,  smiling 
at  her  with  their  small,  faded  mouths  as  you  smile  at  people 
you  love  and  are  happy  with.  You  could  see  that  Mamma 
was  happy,  too,  sitting  between  them,  safe. 

Mrs.  Waugh  said,  "  I  see  you've  got  Blenkiron  in  again?  " 

"  Well,  he's  left  his  ladder  in  the  yard.  I  suppose  that 
means  he'll  mend  the  kitchen  chimney  some  time  before 
winter." 

"  The  Yorkshire  workmen  are  very  independent,"  Mrs. 
Waugh  said. 

"  They  scamp  their  work  like  the  rest.  You'd  need  a 
resident  carpenter,  and  a  resident  glazier,  and  a  resident 
plumber  —  " 

"  Yes,  Caroline,  you  would  indeed." 

Gentle  voices  saying  things  you  had  heard  before  in  the 
drawing-room  at  Five  Elms. 

Miss  Frewin  had  opened  a  black  silk  bag  that  hung  on 
her  arm,  and  taken  out  a  minute  pair  of  scissors  and  a  long 
strip  of  white  stuff  with  a  stitched  pattern  on  it.  She  nicked 
out  the  pattern  into  little  holes  outlined  by  the  stitches. 
Mary  watched  her,  fascinated  by  the  delicate  movements  of 
the  thin  fingers  and  the  slanted,  drooping  postures  of  the 
head. 

"  Do  you  like  doing  it?  " 

"  Yes." 


168  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

She  thought:  "  What  a  fool  she  must  think  me.  As  if 
she'd  do  it  if  she  didn't  like  it." 

The  arching  eyes  and  twitching  mouth  smiled  at  your 
foolishness. 

Mrs.  Waugh's  voice  went  on.  It  came  smoothly,  hardly 
moving  her  small,  round  mouth.  That  was  her  natural 
voice.  Then  suddenly  it  rose,  like  a  voice  that  calls  to  you 
to  get  up  in  the  morning. 

"  Well,  Mary  —  so  you've  left  school.  Come  home  to  be 
a  help  to  your  mother." 

A  high,  false  cheerfulness,  covering  disapproval  and 
reproach. 

Their  gentleness  was  cold  to  her  and  secretly  inimical. 
They  had  asked  her  because  of  Mamma.  They  didn't 
really  want  her. 

Half-past  six.  It  was  all  over.  They  were  going  home 
across  the  Green. 

"  Mary,  I  wish  you  could  learn  to  talk  without  affectation. 
Telling  Mrs.  Waugh  you  'looked  like  yourself'!  If  you 
could  only  manage  to  forget  yourself." 

Your  self?  Your  self?  Why  should  you  forget  it?  You 
had  to  remember.     They  would  kill  it  if  you  let  them. 

What  had  it  done?  What  was  it  that  they  should  hate 
it  so?  It  had  been  happy  and  excited  about  them,  wonder- 
ing what  they  Vv'ould  be  like.  And  quiet,  looking  on  and 
listening,  in  the  strange,  green-lighted,  green-dark  room, 
crushed  by  the  gentle,  hostile  voices. 

Would  it  always  have  to  stoop  and  cringe  before  people, 
hushing  its  own  voice,  hiding  its  own  gesture? 

It  crouched  now,  stung  and  beaten,  hiding  in  her  body 
that  walked  beside  her  mother  with  proud  feet,  and  small 
lifted  head. 

VII 

Her  mother  turned  at  her  bedroom  door  and  signed  to 
her  to  come  in. 

She  sat  down  in  her  low  chair  at  the  head  of  the  curtained 
bed.    Mary  sat  in  the  window-seat. 

*'  There's  something  I  want  to  say  to  you." 


MATURITY  169 

"  Yes,  Mamma." 

Mamma  was  annoyed.  She  tap-tapped  with  her  foot  on 
the  floor. 

"  Have  you  given  up  those  absurd  ideas  of  yours?  " 

"What  absurd  ideas?" 

"  You  know  what  I  mean.  Calling  yourself  an  unbe- 
liever." 

"  I  can't  say  I  believe  things  I  don't  believe." 

'*  Have  you  tried?  " 

"  Tried?  " 

"  Have  you  ever  asked  God  to  help  your  unbelief?  " 

"  No.  I  could  only  do  that  if  I  didn't  believe  in  my 
unbelief." 

"  You  mean  if  you  didn't  glorj''  in  it.  Then  it's  simply 
your  self-will  and  your  pride.  Self-will  has  been  your  be- 
setting sin  ever  since  you  were  a  little  baby  crying  for  some- 
thing you  couldn't  have.     You  kicked  before  you  could  talk. 

"  Goodness  knows  I've  done  everything  I  could  to  break 
you  of  it." 

"  Yes,  Mamma  darling." 

She  remembered.  The  faded  green  and  grey  curtains  and 
the  yellow  birchwood  furniture  remembered.  Mamma  sat 
on  the  little  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  big  yellow  bed.  You 
knelt  in  her  lap  and  played  with  the  gold  tassel  while 
Mamma  asked  you  to  give  up  j^our  will. 

"  I  brought  you  up  to  care  for  God  and  for  the  truth." 

"  You  did.  And  I  care  so  awfully  for  both  of  them  that 
I  won't  believe  things  about  God  that  aren't  true." 

"  And  how  do  you  know  what's  true  and  what  isn't? 
You  set  up  your  little  judgment  against  all  the  wise  and 
learned  people  who  believe  as  you  were  taught  to  believe. 
I  wonder  how  you  dare." 

"  It's  the  risk  we're  all  taking.  We  may  ever>'  single  one 
of  us  be  wrong.  Still,  if  some  things  are  true  other  things 
can't  be.     Don't  look  so  unhappy.  Mamma." 

"  How  can  I  be  anything  else?  When  I  think  of  you 
living  without  God  in  the  world,  and  of  what  will  happen 
to  you  when  you  die." 

"  It's  your  belief  that  makes  you  imhappy,  not  me." 

"  That's  the  cruellest  thing  you've  said  yet." 


170  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  You  know  I'd  rather  die  than  hurt  you." 

"Die,  indeed!  When  you  hurt  me  every  minute  of  the 
day.  If  it  had  been  anything  but  unbelief.  If  I  even  saw 
you  humble  and  sorry  about  it.  But  you  seem  to  be  pos- 
itively enjoying  yourself." 

"  I  can't  help  it  if  the  things  I  think  of  make  me  happy. 
And  you  don't  know  how  nice  it  feels  to  be  free." 

"  Precious  freedom !  —  to  do  what  you  like  and  think  what 
you  like,  without  caring." 

"  There's  a  part  of  me  that  doesn't  care  and  there's  a  part 
that  cares  frightfully." 

The  part  that  cared  was  not  free.  Not  free.  Prisoned  in 
her  mother's  bedroom  with  the  yellow  furniture  that  remem- 
bered. Her  mother's  face  that  remembered.  Always  the 
same  vexed,  disapproving,  remembering  face.  And  her  own 
heart,  sinking  at  each  beat,  dragging  remembrance.  A  dead 
child,  remembering  and  returning. 

"  I  can't  think  where  you  got  it  from,"  her  mother  was 
saying.  "  Unless  it's  those  books  you're  always  reading. 
Or  was  it  that  man?  " 

"  What  man?  " 

"  Maurice  Jourdain." 

"  No.     It  wasn't.    What  made  you  think  of  him?  " 

"  Never  you  mind." 

Actually  her  mother  was  smiling  and  trying  not  to  smile, 
as  if  she  were  thinking  of  something  funny  and  improper. 

"  There's  one  thing  I  must  beg  of  you,"  she  said,  "  that 
whatever  you  choose  to  think,  you'll  hold  your  tongue  about 
it." 

"  All  my  life?    Like  Aunt  Lavvy?  " 

"  There  was  a  reason  why  then ;  and  there's  a  reason  why 
now.  Your  father  has  been  very  unfortunate.  We're  here 
in  a  new  place,  and  the  less  we  make  ourselves  conspicuous 
the  better." 

"  I  see." 

She  thought:  "  Because  Papa  drinks  Mamma  and  Roddy 
go  proud  and  angry;  but  I  must  stoop  and  hide.  It  isn't 
fair." 

"  You  surely  don't  want,"  her  mother  said,  "  to  make  it 
harder  for  me  than  it  is." 


MATURITY  171 

Tears.    She  was  beaten. 
"  I  don't  want  to  make  it  hard  for  you  at  all." 
"  Then  promise  me  you  won't  talk  about  religion." 
"  I  won't  talk  about  it  to  Mrs.  Waugh." 
"  Not  to  anybody." 

"  Not  to  anybody  who  wouldn't  like  it.  Unless  they  make 
me.     Will  that  do?  " 

"  I  suppose  it'll  have  to." 

Mamma  held  her  face  up,  like  a  child,  to  be  kissed. 

vni 

The  SutclifTes'  house  hid  in  the  thick  trees  at  the  foot  of 
GreflBngton  Edge.  You  couldn't  see  it.  You  could  pretend 
it  wasn't  there.  You  could  pretend  that  Mr.  Sutcliffe  and 
Mrs.  Sutcliffe  were  not  there.  You  could  pretend  that 
nothing  had  happened. 

There  were  other  houses. 

IX 

The  long  house  at  the  top  of  the  Green  was  gay  with 
rows  of  pink  and  white  sun-blinds  stuck  out  like  attic  roofs. 
The  poplars  in  the  garden  played  their  play  of  falling  rain. 

You  waited  in  the  porch,  impatient  for  the  opening  of 
the  door. 

"  Mamma  —  what  will  it  be  like?  " 

Mamma  smiled  a  naughty,  pretty  smile.  She  knew  what 
it  would  be  like. 

There  was  a  stuffed  salmon  in  a  long  glass  case  in  the 
hall.  He  swam,  over  a  brown  plaster  river  bed,  glued  to  a 
milk-blue  plaster  stream. 

You  waited  in  the  drawing-room.  Drab  and  dying  amber 
and  the  dapple  of  walnut  wood.  Chairs  dressed  in  pallid 
chintz,  holding  out  their  skirts  with  an  air  of  anxiety. 
Stuffed  love-birds  on  a  branch  under  a  tall  glass  shade.  On 
the  chimney-piece  sand-white  pampas  grass  in  clear  blood- 
red  vases,  and  a  white  marble  clock  supporting  a  gilt  Cupid 
astride  over  a  gilt  ball. 

Above  the  Cupid,  in  an  oval  frame,  the  tinted  crayon 
portrait  of  a  young  girl.     A  pink  and  blond  young  girl  with 


172  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

a  soft  nuzzling  mouth  and  nose.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
spencer  and  a  wide  straw  hat,  and  carried  a  basket  of  flow- 
ers on  her  arm.     She  looked  happy,  smiling  up  at  the  ceiling. 

Across  the  passage  a  door  opening.  Voices  in  the  pas- 
sage, a  smell  like  rotten  apples,  a  tray  that  clattered. 

Miss  Kendal  rustled  in;  tall  elegant  stiffness  girded  in 
black  silk. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come,  Mrs.  Olivier.  And  to  bring 
Miss  Mary." 

Her  sharp-jointed  body  was  like  the  high-backed  chair 
it  sat  on.  Yet  you  saw  that  she  had  once  been  the  young 
girl  in  the  spencer;  head  carried  high  with  the  remembered 
tilt  of  the  girl's  head;  jaw  pushed  out  at  the  chin  as  if  it 
hung  lightly  from  the  edge  of  the  upper  lip;  the  nuzzling 
mouth  composed  to  prudence  and  propriety.  A  lace  cap 
with  pink  ribbons  perched  on  her  smooth,  ashy  blond  hair. 

Miss  Kendal  talked  to  Mamma  about  weather  and  gar- 
dens; she  asked  after  the  kitchen  chimney  as  if  she  really 
cared  for  it.  Every  now  and  then  she  looked  at  you  and 
gave  you  a  nod  and  a  smile  to  show  that  she  remembered 
you  were  there. 

When  she  smiled  her  eyes  were  happy  like  the  eyes  of 
the  young  girl. 

The  garden-gate  clicked  and  fell  to  with  a  clang.  A  bell 
clamoured  suddenly  through  the  quiet  house. 

Miss  Kendal  nodded.  "  The  Doctor  has  come  to  tea.  To 
see  Miss  Mary." 

She  put  her  arm  in  yours  and  led  you  into  the  dining- 
room,  gaily,  gaily,  as  if  she  had  known  you  for  a  long  time, 
as  if  she  were  taking  you  with  her  to  some  brilliant,  happy 
feast. 

The  smell  of  rotten  apples  came  towards  you  through  the 
open  door  of  the  dining-room.  You  saw  the  shining  of  pure 
white  damask,  the  flashing  of  silver,  a  flower-bed  of  blue 
willow  pattern  cups,  an  enormous  pink  and  white  cake. 
You  thought  it  was  a  party. 

Three  old  men  were  there. 

Old  Dr.  Kendal,  six  feet  of  leanness  doubled  up  in  an 
arm-chair.  Old  Wellington  face,  shrunk,  cheeks  burning  in 
a  senile  raddle.     Glassy  blue  eyes  weeping  from  red  rims. 


MATURITY  173 

Dr.  Charles  Kendal,  his  son;  a  hard,  blond  giant;  high 
cheeks,  raw  ruddied;  high  bleak  nose  jutting  out  with  a 
steep  fall  to  the  long  upper  lip;  savage  mouth  under  a 
straight  blond  fringe,  a  shark's  keen  tooth  pointing  at  the 
dropped  jaw.  Arched  forehead  drooping  to  the  spread  ears, 
blond  eyebrows  drooping  over  slack  lids. 

And  Mr.  James. 

Mr.  James  was  the  only  short  one.  He  stood  apart,  his 
eyes  edging  off  from  his  limp  hand-shaking.  Mr.  James  had 
a  red  face  and  high  bleak  nose  like  his  brother;  he  was 
clean-shaved  except  for  short  auburn  whiskers  brushed  for- 
ward in  flat  curls.  His  thin  Wellington  lips  went  out  and 
in,  pressed  together,  trying  hard  not  to  laugh  at  you. 

He  held  his  arms  bowed  out  stiffly,  as  if  the  arm-holes  of 
his  coat  were  too  tight  for  him. 

The  room  was  light  at  the  far  end,  where  the  two  windows 
were,  and  dark  at  the  door-end  where  the  mahogany  side- 
board was.  The  bright,  loaded  table  stretched  between. 
Old  Dr.  Kendal  sat  behind  it  by  the  corner  of  the  fireplace. 
Though  it  was  August  the  windows  were  shut  and  a  fire 
burned  in  the  grate.  Two  tabby  cats  sat  up  by  the  fender, 
blinking  and  nodding  with  sleep. 

"  Here's  Father,"  Miss  Kendal  said.  "  And  here's 
Johnnie  and  Minnie." 

He  had  dropped  off  into  a  doze.    She  woke  him. 

"  You  know  Mrs.  Olivier,  Father.  And  this  is  Miss 
Olivier." 

"  Ay.  Eh."  From  a  red  and  yellow  pocket-handkerchief 
he  disentangled  a  stringy  claw-like  hand  and  held  it  up 
with  an  effort. 

"  Ye've  come  to  see  the  old  man,  have  ye?    Ay.    Eh." 

"He's  the  oldest  in  the  Dale,"  Miss  Kendal  said. 
"Except  Mr.  Peacock  of  Sarrack." 

"  Don't  you  forget  Mr.  Peacock  of  Sarrack,  or  he'll  be 
so  set-up  there'll  be  no  bearing  him,"  Dr.  Charles  said. 

"  Miss  Mary,  will  you  sit  by  Father?  " 

"  No,  she  won't.    Miss  Mary  will  sit  over  here  by  me." 

Though  Dr.  Charles  was  not  in  his  own  house  he  gave 
orders.  He  took  Mr.  James's  place  at  the  foot  of  the  table. 
He  made  her  sit  at  his  left  hand  and  Mamma  at  his  right; 


174  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

and  he  slanted  Mamma's  chair  and  fixed  a  basket  screen 
on  its  back  so  that  she  was  shielded  both  from  the  fire  and 
from  the  presence  of  the  old  man. 

Dr.  Charles  talked. 

"  Where  did  you  get  that  thin  face,  Miss  Mary?  Not  in 
Rathdale,  I'll  be  bound." 

He  looked  at  you  with  small  grey  eyes  blinking  under 
weak  lids  and  bared  the  shark's  tooth,  smiling.  A  kind, 
hungry  shark. 

"  They  must  have  starved  you  at  your  school.  No? 
Then  they  made  you  study  too  hard.  Kate — what  d'you 
think  Bill  Acroyd's  done  now?  Turned  this  year's  heifers 
out  along  of  last  year's  with  the  ringworm.  And  asks  me 
how  I  think  they  get  it.  This  child  doesn't  eat  enough  to 
keep  a  mouse,  Mrs.  Olivier." 

He  would  leave  off  talking  now  and  then  to  eat,  and 
in  the  silence  remarkable  noises  would  come  from  the  arm- 
chair. When  that  happened  Miss  Kendal  would  look  under 
the  table  and  pretend  that  Minnie  and  Johnnie  were  fight- 
ing.   "  Oh,  those  bad  pussies,"  she  would  say. 

When  her  face  kept  quiet  it  looked  dead  beside  the 
ruddy  faces  of  the  three  old  men;  dead  and  very  quietly, 
very  softly  decomposing  into  bleached  purple  and  sallow 
white.  Then  her  gaiety  would  come  popping  up  again  and 
jerk  it  back  into  life. 

Mr,  James  sat  at  her  corner,  beside  Mary.  He  didn't 
talk,  but  his  Wellington  mouth  moved  perpetually  in  and 
out,  and  his  small  reddish  eyes  twinkled,  twinkled,  with  a 
shrewd,  secret  mirth.  You  thought  every  minute  he  would 
burst  out  laughing,  and  you  wondered  what  you  were  doing 
to  amuse  him  so. 

Every  now  and  then  Miss  Kendal  would  tell  you  some- 
thing about  him. 

"  What  do  you  think  Mr.  James  did  to-day?  He  walked  all 
the  way  to  Garth  and  back  again.     Over  nine  miles!  " 

And  Mr.  James  would  look  gratified. 

Tea  was  over  with  the  sacrifice  of  the  pink  and  white 
cake.  Miss  Kendal  took  your  arm  again  and  led  you,  gaily, 
gaily  back  to  the  old  man. 

"  Here's  Miss  Mary  come  to  talk  to  you,  Father." 


MATURITY  175 

She  set  a  chair  for  you  beside  him.  He  turned  his  head 
slowly  to  you,  waking  out  of  his  doze. 

"  What  did  she  say  your  name  was,  my  dear?  " 

"  Olivier.     Mary  Olivier." 

"  I  don't  call  to  mind  anybody  of  that  name  in  the  Dale. 
But  I  suppose  I  brought  you  into  the  world  same  as  the 
rest  of  'em." 

Miss  Kendal  gave  a  little  bound  in  her  chair.  "  Does 
anybody  know  where  Pussy  is?  " 

The  claw  hand  stirred  in  the  red  and  yellow  pocket- 
handkerchief. 

"  Ye've  come  to  see  the  old  man,  have  ye?    Ay.     Eh." 

When  he  talked  he  coughed.  A  dreadful  sound,  as  if 
he  dragged  up  out  of  himself  a  long,  rattling  chain. 

It  hurt  you  to  look  at  him.    Pity  hurt  you. 

Once  he  had  been  young,  like  Roddy.  Then  he  had  been 
middle-aged,  with  hanging  jaw  and  weak  eyelids,  like 
Dr.  Charles.  Now  he  was  old,  old;  he  sat  doubled  up, 
coughing  and  weeping,  in  a  chair.  But  you  could  see  that 
Miss  Kendal  was  proud  of  him.  She  thought  him  wonderful 
because  he  kept  on  living. 

Supposing  he  was  your  father  and  you  had  to  sit  with 
him,  all  your  life,  in  a  room  smelling  of  rotten  apples,  could 
you  bear  it?  Could  you  bear  it  for  a  fortnight?  Wouldn't 
you  wish  —  wouldn't  you  wish  —  supposing  Papa  —  all  your 
life. 

But  if  you  couldn't  bear  it  that  would  mean — 

No.  No.  She  put  her  hand  on  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
to  protect  him,  to  protect  him  from  her  thoughts. 

The  claw  fingers  scrabbled,  groping  for  her  hand. 

"  Would  ye  like  to  be  an  old  man's  bed-fellow?  " 

"  Pussy  says  it  isn't  her  bed-time  yet,  Father." 

When  you  went  away  Miss  Kendal  stood  on  the  doorstep 
looking  after  you.  The  last  you  saw  of  her  was  a  soft 
grimace  of  innocent  gaiety. 

X 

The  Vicar  of  Renton.    He  wanted  to  see  her. 
Mamma  had  left  her  in  the  room  with  him,  going  out  with 
an  air  of  self-conscious  connivance. 


176  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LITE 

Mr.  Spencer  Rollitt.  Hard  and  handsome.  Large  face, 
square- cut,  clean-shaved,  bare  of  any  accent  except  its  eye- 
brows, its  mouth  a  thin  straight  line  hardly  visible  in  its 
sunburn.  Small  blue  eyes  standing  still  in  the  sunburn, 
hard  and  cold. 

When  Mr.  Rollitt  wanted  to  express  heartiness  he  had 
to  fall  back  on  gesture,  on  the  sudden  flash  of  white  teeth; 
he  drew  in  his  breath,  sharply,  between  the  straight,  close 
lips,  with  a  sound:  "  Fivv-vv!  " 

She  watched  him.  Under  his  small  handsome  nose  his 
jciouth  and  chin  together  made  one  steep,  straight  line. 
This  lower  face,  flat  and  naked,  without  lips,  stretched  like 
another  forehead.  At  the  top  of  the  real  forehead,  where  his 
hat  had  saved  his  skin,  a  straight  band,  white,  like  a  scar. 
Yet  Mr.  Spencer  Rollitt's  hair  curled  and  clustered  out  at 
the  back  of  his  head  in  perfect  innocence. 

He  was  smiling  his  muscular  smile,  while  his  little  hard 
cold  eyes  held  her  in  their  tight  stare. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  would  like  to  take  a  class  in  my 
Sunday  School?  " 

''  I'm  afraid  I  wouldn't  like  it  at  all." 

"  Nothing  to  be  afraid  of.  I  should  give  you  the  infants' 
school." 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  there,  explaining  that  there  was 
nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  and  that  he  would  give  her  the 
infants'  school.  You  felt  him  filling  the  room,  crushing  you 
back  and  back,  forcing  his  will  on  you.  There  was  too  much 
of  his  will,  too  much  of  his  face.  Her  will  rose  up 
against  his  will  and  against  his  face,  and  its  false,  muscular 
smile. 

"  I'm  sure  my  mother  didn't  say  I'd  like  to  teach  in  a 
Sunday  School." 

"  She  said  she'd  be  very  glad  if  I  could  persuade  you." 

"  She'd  say  that.  But  she  knows  perfectly  well  I  wouldn't 
really  do  it." 

"  It  was  not  Mrs.  Olivier's  idea." 

He  got  up.  When  he  stood  his  eyes  stared  at  nothing 
away  over  your  head.  He  wouldn't  lower  them  to  look 
at  you, 

"  It  was  Mrs.  Sutcliffe's." 


MATURITY  177 

"  How  funny  of  Mrs.  Sutcliffc.  She  doesn't  know  me, 
either." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  you  were  at  school  when  your 
father  and  mother  dined  at  GreflSngton  Hall." 

He  was  looking  down  at  her  now,  and  she  could  feel 
herself  blushing  ;  hot,  red  waves  of  shame,  rushing  up, 
tingling  in  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

"  Mrs.  Sutcliffe,"  he  said,  "  is  very  kind." 

She  saw  it  now.  He  had  been  at  the  Sutcliffes  that 
evening.  He  had  seen  Papa.  He  was  trying  to  say,  "  Your 
father  was  drunk  at  Greffington  Hall.  He  will  never  be 
asked  there  again.  He  will  not  be  particularly  welcome  at 
the  Vicarage.  But  you  are  very  young.  We  do  not  wish 
you  to  suffer.  This  is  our  kindness  to  you.  Take  it.  You 
are  not  in  a  position  to  refuse." 

"  And  what  am  I  to  say  to  Mrs.  Sutcliffe?  " 

"  Oh,  anything  you  like  that  wouldn't  sound  too  rude." 

"  Shall  I  say  that  you're  a  very  independent  young  lady, 
and  that  she  had  better  not  ask  you  to  join  her  sewing- 
class?    Would  that  sound  too  rude?  " 

"  Not  a  bit.  If  you  put  it  nicely.  But  you  would, 
wouldn't  you?  " 

He  looked  down  at  her  again.  His  thick  eyes  had  thawed 
slightly;  they  let  out  a  twinkle.  But  he  was  hold- 
ing his  lips  so  tight  that  they  had  disappeared.  A  loud, 
surprising  laugh  forced  them  open. 

He  held  out  his  hand  with  a  gesture,  drawing  back  his 
laugh  in  a  tremendous  "  Fiv-v-v-v." 

When  he  had  gone  she  opened  the  piano  and  played,  and 
played.  Through  the  window  of  the  room  Chopin's  Fontana 
Polonaise  went  out  after  him,  joyous,  triumphant  and  de- 
fiant, driving  him  before  it.  She  exulted  in  her  power  over  the 
Polonaise.  Nothing  could  touch  you,  nothing  could  hurt  you 
while  you  played.    If  only  you  could  go  on  playing  for  ever  — 

Her  mother  came  in  from  the  garden. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  "  if  you  will  play,  you  must  play 
gently." 

"  But  Mamma  —  I  can't.     It  goes  like  that." 

"  Then,"  said  her  mother,  "  don't  play  it.  You  can  be 
heard  all  over  the  village." 

N 


178  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Bother  the  village.  I  don't  care.  I  don't  care  if  I'm 
heard  all  over  everywhere !  " 

She  went  on  plajang. 

But  it  was  no  use.  She  struck  a  wrong  note.  Her 
hands  trembled  and  lost  their  grip.  They  stiffened,  dropped 
from  the  keys.  She  sat  and  stared  idiotically  at  the  white 
page,  at  the  black  dots  nodding  on  their  stems,  at  the  black 
bars  swaying. 

She  had  forgotten  how  to  play  Chopin's  Fontana 
Polonaise. 


XI 

Stone  walls.  A  wild  country,  caught  in  the  net  of  the 
stone  walls. 

Stone  walls  following  the  planes  of  the  land,  running 
straight  along  the  valleys,  switchbacking  up  and  down  the 
slopes.    Humped-up,  grey  spines  of  the  green  mounds. 

Stone  walls,  piled  loosely,  with  the  brute  skill  of  earth- 
men,  building  centuries  ago.  They  bulged,  they  toppled, 
yet  they  stood  firm,  holding  the  wild  country  in  their  mesh, 
knitting  the  grey  villages  to  the  grey  farms,  and  the  farms 
to  the  grey  byres.  Where  3^ou  thought  the  net  had  ended 
it  flung  out  a  grey  rope  over  the  purple  back  of  Renton, 
the  green  shoulder  of  Greffington. 

Outside  the  village,  the  schoolhouse  lane,  a  green  trench 
sunk  between  stone  walls,  went  up  and  up,  turning  three 
times.    At  the  top  of  the  last  turn  a  gate. 

When  you  had  got  through  the  gate  you  were  free. 

It  led  on  to  the  wide,  flat  half-ring  of  moor  that  lay  under 
Karva.  The  moor  and  the  high  mound  of  the  hill  were 
free;  they  had  slipped  from  the  net  of  the  walls. 

Broad  sheep-drives  cut  through  the  moor.  Inlets  of 
green  grass  forked  into  purple  heather.  Green  streamed 
through  purple,  lapped  against  purple,  lay  on  purple  in 
pools  and  splashes. 

Burnt  patches.  Tongues  of  heather,  twisted  and  pointed, 
picked  clean  by  fire,  flickering  grey  over  black  earth. 
Towards  evening  the  black  and  grey  ran  together  like  ink 
and  water,  stilled  into  purple,  the  black  purple  of  grapes. 


MATURITY  179 

If  you  shut  your  eyes  you  could  see  the  flat  Essex  country 
spread  in  n  thin  film  over  Karva.  Thinner  and  thinner. 
But  you  could  remember  what  it  had  been  like.  Low, 
tilled  fields,  thin  trees  ;  sharp,  queer,  uncertain  beauty. 
Sharp,  queer,  uncertain  happiness,  coming  again  and  again, 
never  twice  to  the  same  place  in  the  same  way.  It  hurt  you 
when  you  remembered  it. 

The  beauty  of  the  hills  was  not  like  that.  It  stayed. 
It  waited  for  you,  keeping  faith.  Day  after  day,  night  after 
night,  it  was  there. 

Happiness  was  there.  You  were  sure  of  it  every  time. 
Roddy's  uneasy  eyes,  Papa's  feet,  shuffling  in  the  passage. 
Mamma's  disapproving,  remembering  face,  the  Kendals' 
house,  smelling  of  rotten  apples,  the  old  man,  coughing 
and  w^eeping  in  his  chair,  they  couldn't  kill  it  ;  they  couldn't 
take  it  away. 

The  mountain  sheep  waited  for  you.  They  stood  back 
as  you  passed,  staring  at  you  with  their  look  of  wonder  and 
sadness. 

Grouse  shot  up  from  your  feet  with  a  "  Rek-ek-ek-kek !  " 
in  sudden,  explosive  flight. 

Plovers  rose,  wheeling  round  and  round  3^ou  with  sharper 
and  sharper  cries  of  agitation.  "  Pee-vit  —  pee-vit  —  pee- 
vit!  'Pee-vitt! "  They  swooped,  suddenly  close,  close  to 
your  eyes ;  you  heard  the  drumming  vibration  of  their  wings. 

Away  in  front  a  line  of  sheep  went  slowly  up  and  up 
Karva.    The  hill  made  their  bleating  mournful  and  musical. 

You  slipped  back  into  the  house.  In  the  lamp-lighted 
drawing-room  the  others  sat,  bored  and  tired,  waiting  for 
prayer-time.  They  hadn't  noticed  how  long  you  had  been 
gone. 


XII 

"  Roddy,  I  wish  you'd  go  and  see  where  your  father  is." 
Roddy  looked  up  from  his  sketch-book.    He  had  filled  it 
with  pictures  of   cavalry  on  plunging  chargers,  trains  of 
artillery  rushing  into  battle,  sailing  ships  in  heavy  seas. 

Roddy's  mind  was  possessed  by  images  of  danger  and 
adventure. 


180  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

He  flourished  off  the  last  wave  of  battle-smoke,  and  shut 
the  sketch-book  with  a  snap. 

Mamma  knew  perfectly  well  where  Papa  was,  Roddy 
knew.  Catty  and  Maggie  the  cook  knew.  Everybody  in 
the  village  knew.  Regularly,  about  six  o'clock  in  the  even- 
ing, he  shuffled  out  of  the  house  and  along  the  High  Row 
to  the  Buck  Hotel,  and  towards  dinner-time  Roddy  had  to 
go  and  bring  him  back.  Everybody  knew  what  he  went 
for. 

He  would  have  to  hold  Papa  tight  by  the  arm  and  lead 
him  over  the  cobblestones.  They  would  pass  the  long 
bench  at  the  corner  under  the  Kendals'  wall ;  and  Mr.  Old- 
shaw,  the  banker,  and  Mr.  Horn,  the  grocer,  and  Mr. 
Acroyd,  the  shoemaker,  would  be  sitting  there  talking  to 
Mr.  Belk,  who  was  justice  of  the  peace.  And  they  would 
see  Papa.  The  young  men  squatting  on  the  flagstones  out- 
side the  "  Farmer's  Arms  "  and  the  "  King's  Head  "  would 
see  him.  And  Papa  would  stiffen  and  draw  himself  up, 
trying  to  look  dignified  and  sober. 

When  he  was  very  bad  Mamma  would  cry,  quietly,  all 
through  dinner-time.  But  she  would  never  admit  that  he 
went  to  the  Buck  Hotel.  He  had  just  gone  off  nobody  knew 
where  and  Roddy  had  got  to  find  him. 

August,  September  and  October  passed. 


XIII 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  wait?  You  know  them  all  now. 
You  see  what  they're  like." 

In  Roddy's  voice  there  was  a  sort  of  tired,  bitter  triumph. 

She  knew  them  all  now:  Mrs.  Waugh  and  Miss  Frewin, 
and  the  Kendals;  Mr.  Spencer  Rollitt,  and  Miss  Louisa 
Wright  who  had  had  a  disappointment;  and  old  Mrs.  Heron. 
They  were  all  old. 

Oh,  and  there  was  Dorsy  Heron,  Mrs.  Heron's  niece. 
But  Dorsy  was  old  too,  twenty-seven.  She  was  no  good; 
she  couldn't  talk  to  Roddy;  she  could  only  look  at  him 
with  bright,  shy  eyes,  like  a  hare. 

Roddy  and  Mary  were  going  up  the  Garthdale  road.  At 
the  first  turn  they  saw  Mrs.  Waugh  and  her  son  coming 
towards  them.     (She  had  forgotten  Norman  Waugh.) 


MATURITY  181 

Rodney  groaned.  "  He's  here  again.  I  say,  let's  go 
back." 

"  We  can't.    They've  seen  us." 

"  Everybody  sees  us,"  Roddy  said. 

He  began  to  walk  with  a  queer,  defiant,  self-conscious 
jerk. 

Mrs.  Waugh  came  on,  buoyantly,  as  if  the  hoop  of  a 
crinoline  still  held  her  up. 

"  Well,  Mary,  going  for  another  walk?  " 

She  stopped,  in  a  gracious  mood  to  show  off  her  son. 
When  she  looked  at  Roddy  her  raised  eyebrows  said,  ''  Still 
here,  doing  nothing?  " 

"  Norman's  going  back  to  work  on  Monday,"  she  said. 

The  son  stood  aside,  uninterested,  impatient,  staring 
past  them,  beating  the  road  with  his  stick.  He  was  thick- 
set and  square.  He  had  the  stooping  head  and  heavy 
eyes  of  a  bull.  Black  hair  and  eyebrows  grew  bushily  from 
his  dull-white  Frewin  skin. 

He  would  be  an  engineer.  Mr.  Belk's  brother  had  taken 
him  into  his  works  at  Durlingham.  He  wasn't  seventeen, 
yet  he  knew  how  to  make  engines.  He  had  a  strong,  lum- 
bering body.  His  heart  would  go  on  thump-thumping 
with  regular  strokes,  like  a  stupid  piston,  not  like  Roddy's 
heart,  excited,  quivering,  hurrying,  suddenly  checking.  His 
eyes  drew  his  mother  away.  You  were  glad  when  they 
were  gone. 

"  You  can  see  what  they  think,"  Roddy  said.  "  Every- 
body thinks  it." 

"  Everybody  thinks  what?  " 

"  That  I'm  a  cad  to  be  sticking  here,  doing  nothing,  living 
on  Mamma's  money." 

"  It  doesn't  matter.     They've  no  business  to  think." 

"  No.  But  Mamma  thinks  it.  She  says  I  ought  to  get 
something  to  do.  She  talks  about  Mark  and  Dan.  She 
can't  see  —  "    He  stopped,  biting  his  lip. 

"If  I  were  like  Mark  —  if  I  could  do  things.  That  beast 
Norman  Waugh  can  do  things.  He  doesn't  live  on  his 
mother's  money.    She  sees  that  .  .  . 

"  She  doesn't  know  what's  the  matter  with  me.  She 
thinks  it's  only  my  heart.    And  it  isn't.    It's  me.    I'm  an 


182  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

idiot.  I  can't  even  do  office  work  like  Dan,  .  .  .  She  thinks 
I'll  be  all  right  if  I  go  away  far  enough,  where  she  won't 
see  me.  Mind  you,  I  should  be  all  right  if  I'd  gone  into  the 
Navy.  She  knows  if  I  hadn't  had  that  beastly  rheumatic 
fever  I'd  have  been  in  the  Navy  or  the  Merchant  Service 
now.  It's  all  rot  not  passing  you.  As  if  walking  about 
on  a  ship's  deck  was  worse  for  your  heart  than  digging  in 
a  garden.  It  certainly  couldn't  be  worse  than  farming  in 
Canada." 

"  Farming?    In  Canada?  " 

"  That's  her  idea.  It'll  kill  me  to  do  what  /  want.  It 
won't  kill  me  to  do  what  she  wants." 

He  brooded. 

"  Mark  did  what  he  wanted.  He  went  away  and  left 
her.  Brute  as  I  am,  I  wouldn't  have  done  that.  She 
doesn't  know  that's  why  I'm  sticking  here.  I  can't  leave 
her.     I'd  rather  die." 

Roddy  too.  He  had  always  seemed  to  go  his  own  way 
without  caring,  living  his  secret  life,  running,  jumping, 
grinning  at  you.  And  he,  too,  was  compelled  to  adore  Mark 
and  yet  to  cling  helplessly,  hopelessly,  to  Mamma.  When 
he  said  things  about  her  he  was  struggling  against  her, 
trying  to  free  himself.  He  flung  himself  off  and  came  back, 
to  cling  harder.    And  he  was  nineteen. 

"After  all,"  he  said,  "why  shouldn't  I  stay?  It's  not 
as  if  I  didn't  dig  in  the  garden  and  look  after  Papa.  If  I 
went  she'd  have  to  get  somebody." 

"  I  thought  you  wanted  to  go?  "  she  said. 

"  So  I  did.  So  I  do,  for  some  things.  But  when  it  comes 
to  the  point  —  " 

"  When  it  comes  to  the  point?  " 

"  I  funk  it." 

"  Because  of  Mamma?  " 

"  Because  of  me.  That  idiocy.  Supposing  I  had  to  do 
something  I  couldn't  do?  .  .  .  That's  why  I  shall  have  to 
go  away  somewhere  where  it  won't  matter,  where  she  won't 
know  anything  about  it." 

The  frightened  look  was  in  his  eyes  again. 

In  her  heart  a  choking,  breathless  voice  talked  of  un- 
happiness,  coming,  coming.  Unhappiness  that  no  beauty 
could  assuage.    Her  will  hardened  to  shut  it  out. 


MATURITY  183 

Wlicn  the  road  turned  again  they  met  Mr.  James.  He 
walked  with  queer,  jerky  steps,  his  arms  bowed  out  stiffly. 

As  he  passed  he  edged  away  from  you.  His  mouth  moved 
as  if  he  were  trying  not  to  hiugh. 

They  knew  about  Mr.  James  now.  His  mind  hadn't 
grown  since  he  was  five  years  old.  He  could  do  nothing 
but  walk.  Martha,  the  old  servant,  dressed  and  undressed 
him. 

"  I  shall  have  to  go,"  Roddy  said.  "  If  I  stay  here  I 
shall  look  like  Mr.  James.  I  shall  walk  with  my  arms 
bowed  out.     Catty '11  dress  and  undress  me," 


XXI 


They  hated  the  piano.  They  had  pushed  it  away  against 
the  dark  outside  wall.  Its  strings  were  stiff  with  cold,  and 
when  the  rain  came  its  wooden  hammers  swelled  so  that 
two  notes  struck  together  in  the  bass. 

The  piano-tuner  made  them  move  it  to  the  inner  w^all  in 
the  large,  bright  place  that  belonged  to  the  cabinet.  Mamma 
was  annoyed  because  Mary  had  taken  the  piano-tuner's  part. 

Mamma  loved  the  cabinet.  She  couldn't  bear  to  see  it 
standing  in  the  piano's  dark  corner  where  the  green  Chinese 
bowls  hardly  showed  behind  the  black  glimmer  of  the 
panes.  The  light  fell  full  on  the  ragged,  faded  silk  of  the 
piano,  and  on  the  long  scar  across  its  lid.  It  was  like  a 
poor,  shabby  relation. 

It  stood  there  in  the  quiet  room,  with  its  lid  shut,  patient, 
reproachful,  waiting  for  you  to  come  and  play  on  it. 

When  Mary  thought  of  the  piano  her  heart  beat  faster, 
her  fingers  twitched,  the  full,  sensitive  tips  tingled  and 
ached  to  play.  When  she  couldn't  play  she  lay  awake  at 
night  thinking  of  the  music. 

She  was  trying  to  learn  the  Sonato  Appassio?iata,  going 
through  it  bar  by  bar,  slowly  and  softly,  so  that  nobody 
outside  the  room  should  hear  it.  That  was  better  than  not 
playing  it  at  all.  But  sometimes  you  would  forget,  and  as 
soon  as  you  struck  the  loud  chords  in  the  first  movement 


184  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Papa  would  come  in  and  stop  you.  And  the  Sonata  would 
go  on  sounding  inside  you,  trying  to  make  you  play  it,  giving 
you  no  peace. 

Towards  six  o'clock  she  listened  for  his  feet  in  the  flagged 
passage.  When  the  front  door  slammed  behind  him  she 
rushed  to  the  piano.  There  might  be  a  whole  hour  before 
Roddy  fetched  him  from  the  I3uck  Hotel.  If  you  could 
only  reach  the  last  movement,  the  two  thundering  chords, 
and  then  —  the  Presto. 

The  music  beat  on  the  thick  stone  walls  of  the  room  and 
was  beaten  back,  its  fine,  live  throbbing  blunted  by  over- 
tones of  discord.  You  longed  to  open  all  the  doors  and 
windows  of  the  house,  to  push  back  the  stone  walls  and  let 
it  out. 

Terrible  minutes  to  six  when  Mamma's  face  watched  and 
listened,  when  she  knew  what  you  were  tWnking.  You  kept 
on  looking  at  the  clock,  you  wondered  whether  this  time 
Papa  would  really  go.    You  hoped  — 

Mamma's  eyes  hurt  you.  They  said,  "  She  doesn't  care 
what  becomes  of  him  so  long  as  she  can  play." 


II 

Sometimes  the  wounded,  mutilated  Allegro  would  cry 
inside  you  all  day,  imploring  you  to  finish  it,  to  let  it  pour 
out  its  life  in  joy. 

When  it  left  off  the  white  sound  patterns  of  poems  came 
instead.  They  floated  down  through  the  dark  as  she  lay 
on  her  back  in  her  hard,  narrow  bed.  Out  of  doors,  her  feet, 
muffled  in  wet  moor  grass,  went  to  a  beat,  a  clang. 

She  would  never  play  well.  At  any  minute  her  father's 
voice  or  her  mother's  eyes  would  stiffen  her  fingers  and  stop 
them.  She  knew  what  she  would  do  ;  she  had  always  known. 
She  would  make  poems.  They  couldn't  hear  you  making 
poems.  They  couldn't  see  your  thoughts  falling  into  sound 
patterns. 

Only  part  of  the  pattern  would  appear  at  once  while  the 
rest  of  it  went  on  sounding  from  somewhere  a  long  way 
off.  When  all  the  parts  came  together  the  poem  was  made. 
You  felt  as  if  you  had  made  it  long  ago,  and  had  forgotten 
it  and  remembered. 


MATURITY  185 


III 

The  room  held  her  close,  cold  and  white,  a  nun's  cell. 
If  you  counted  the  window-place  it  was  shaped  like  a  cross. 
The  door  at  the  foot,  the  window  at  the  head,  bookshelves 
at  the  end  of  each  arm.  A  kitchen  lamp  with  a  tin  reflector, 
on  a  table,  stood  in  the  breast  of  the  cross.  Its  flame  was 
so  small  that  she  had  to  turn  it  on  to  her  work  like  a  lantern. 

"  Dumpetty,  dumpetty  dum.  Tell  them  that  Bion  is 
dead  ;  he  is  dead,  young  Bion,  the  shepherd.  And  with  him 
music  is  dead  and  Dorian  poetry  perished  —  " 

She  had  the  conceited,  exciting  thought  :  ''  I  am  trans- 
lating Moschus,  the  Funeral  Song  for  Bion." 

Moschus  was  Bion's  friend.  She  wondered  whether  he 
had  been  happy  or  unhappy,  making  his  funeral  song. 

If  you  could  translate  it  all  :  if  you  could  only  make 
patterns  out  of  English  sounds  that  had  the  hardness  and 
stillness  of  the  Greek. 

"  '  Archete,  Sikelikai,  to  pcntheos,  archete  Moisai, 
adones  hai  pukinoisin  oduramenai  poti  phullois.'  " 

The  wind  picked  at  the  pane.  Through  her  thick  tweed 
coat  she  could  feel  the  air  of  the  room  soak  like  cold  water 
to  her  skin.  She  curved  her  aching  hands  over  the  hot 
globe  of  the  lamp. 

—  Oduromenai.  Mourning?  No.  You  thought  of  black 
crape,  bunched  up  weepers,  red  faces. 

The  wick  spluttered;  the  flame  leaned  from  the  burner, 
gave  a  skip  and  went  out. 

Oduromenai  —  Grieving  ;  perhaps. 

Suddenly  she  thought  of  Maurice  Jourdain. 

She  saw  him  standing  in  the  field  path.  She  heard  him 
say  "  Talk  to  me.  I'm  alive.  I'm  here.  I'll  listen.  I'll 
never  misunderstand."  She  saw  his  worn  eyelids;  his  nar- 
row, yellowish  teeth. 

Supposing  he  was  dead  — 

She  would  forget  about  him  for  months  together  ;  then 
suddenly  she  would  remember  him  like  that.  Being  happy 
and  excited  made  you  remember.  She  tried  not  to  see  his 
eyelids  and  his  teeth.    They  didn't  matter. 


186  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


IV 

The  season  of  ungovernable  laughter  had  begun. 

"  Roddy,  they'll  hear  us.    We  m-m-mustn't." 

"  I'm  not.     I'm  blowing  my  nose." 

"  I  wish  /  could  make  it  sound  like  that." 

They  stood  on  the  Kendals'  doorstep,  in  the  dark,  under 
the  snow.  Snow  powdered  the  flagstone  path  swept  ready 
for  the  New  Year's  party. 

"  Think,"  she  said,  "  their  poor  party.  It  would  be  awful 
of  us." 

Roddy  rang.  As  they  waited  they  began  to  laugh  again. 
Helpless,  ruinous,  agonising  laughter. 

"  Oh  —  oh  —  I  can  hear  Martha  coming.  Do  something. 
You  might  be  unbuckling  my  snow-shoes." 

The  party  was  waiting  for  them  in  the  drawing-room. 
Dr.  Charles.  Miss  Louisa  Wright,  stiff  fragility.  A  child's 
face  blurred  and  delicately  weathered;  features  in  inno- 
cent, low  relief.  Pale  hair  rolled  into  an  insubstantial  puff 
above  each  ear.  Speedwell  eyes,  fading  milkily.  Hurt 
eyes,  disappointed  eyes.    Dr.  Charles  had  disappointed  her. 

Dorsy  Heron,  tall  and  straight.  Shy  hare's  face  trying 
to  look  austere. 

Norman  Waugh,  sulky  and  superior,  in  a  corner. 

As  Roddy  came  in  everybody  but  Norman  Waugh  turned 
round  and  stared  at  him  with  sudden,  happy  smiles.  He  was 
so  beautiful  that  it  made  people  happy  to  look  at  him.  His 
very  name,  Rodney  Olivier,  sounded  more  beautiful  than 
other  people's  names. 

Dorsy  Heron's  shy  hare's  eyes  tried  to  look  away  and 
couldn't.    Her  little  high,  red  nose  got  redder. 

And  every  now  and  then  Dr.  Charles  looked  at  Rodney, 
a  grave,  considering  look,  as  if  he  knew  something  about 
him  that  Rodney  didn't  know. 


"  She  shall  play  what  she  likes,"  Mr.  Sutcliffe  said.  He 
had  come  in  late,  without  his  wife. 

She  was  going  to  play  to  them.  They  always  asked  you 
to  play. 


MATURITY  187 

She  thought:  "  It'll  be  all  right.  They  won't  listen; 
they'll  go  on  talking.  I'll  play  something  so  soft  and  slow 
that  they  won't  hear  it.  I  shall  be  alone,  listening  to 
myself." 

She  played  the  first  movement  of  the  Moonlight  Sonata. 
A  beating  heart,  a  grieving  voice;  beautiful,  quiet  grief;  it 
couldn't  disturb  them. 

Suddenly  they  all  left  off  talking.  They  were  listening. 
Each  note  sounded  pure  and  sweet,  as  if  it  went  out  into 
an  empty  room.  They  came  close  up,  one  by  one,  on  tiptoe, 
with  slight  creakings  and  rustlings.  Miss  Kendal,  Louisa 
Wright,  Dorsy  Heron.  Their  eyes  were  soft  and  quiet  like 
the  music. 

Mr.  Sutcliffe  sat  where  he  could  see  her.  He  was  far 
away  from  the  place  where  she  heard  herself  playing,  but 
she  could  feel  his  face  turned  on  her  like  a  light. 

The  first  movement  died  on  its  two  chords.  Somebody 
was  saying  "  How  beautifully  she  plays."  Life  and  warmth 
flowed  into  her.  Exquisite,  tingling  life  and  warmth.  "  Go 
on.  Go  on."  Mr.  Sutcliffe's  voice  sounded  miles  away 
beyond  the  music. 

She  went  on  into  the  lovely  Allegretto.  She  could  see 
their  hushed  faces  leaning  nearer.  You  could  make  them 
happy  by  playing  to  them.  They  loved  you  because  you 
made  them  happy. 

Mr.  Sutcliffe  had  got  up;  he  had  come  closer. 

She  was  playing  the  Presto  agitato.  It  flowed  smoothly 
under  her  fingers,  at  an  incredible  pace,  with  an  incredible 
certainty. 

Something  seemed  to  be  happening  over  there,  outside 
the  place  where  she  heard  the  music.  Martha  came  in  and 
whispered  to  the  Doctor.  The  Doctor  whispered  to  Roddy. 
Roddy  started  up  and  they  went  out  together. 

She  thought:  "  Papa  again."  But  she  w^as  too  happy  to 
care.  Nothing  mattered  so  long  as  she  could  listen  to  her- 
self playing  the  Moonlight  Sonata. 

Under  the  music  she  was  aware  of  Miss  Kendal  stooping 
over  her,  pressing  her  shoulder,  saying  something.  She 
stood  up.    Everybody  was  standing  up,  looking  frightened. 

Outside,  in  the  hall,  she  saw  Catty,  crying.     She  went 


188  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

past  her  over  the  open  threshold  where  the  snow  lay  like  a 
light.  She  couldn't  stay  to  find  her  snow-shoes  and  her 
coat. 

The  track  across  the  Green  struck  hard  and  cold  under 
her  slippers.  The  tickling  and  trickling  of  the  snow  felt 
like  the  play  of  cold  light  fingers  on  her  skin.  Her  fear 
was  a  body  inside  her  body;  it  ached  and  dragged,  stone 
cold  and  still. 

VI 

The  basin  kept  on  slipping  from  the  bed.  She  could  see 
its  pattern  —  reddish  flowers  and  green  leaves  and  curlykews 
—  under  the  splashings  of  mustard  and  water.  She  felt  as  if 
it  must  slip  from  her  fingers  and  be  broken.  When  she 
pressed  it  tighter  to  the  edge  of  the  mattress  the  rim  struck 
against  Papa's  breast. 

He  lay  stretched  out  on  the  big  yellow  birchwood  bed. 
The  curtains  were  drawn  back,  holding  the  sour  smell  of 
sickness  in  their  fluted  folds. 

Papa's  body  made  an  enormous  mound  under  the  green 
eiderdown.  It  didn't  move.  A  little  fluff  of  down  that  had 
pricked  its  way  through  the  cover  still  lay  where  it  had 
settled  ;  Papa's  head  still  lay  where  it  had  dropped  ;  the 
forefinger  still  pointed  at  the  fluff  of  down. 

Papa's  head  was  thrown  stiffly  back  on  the  high  pillows  ; 
it  sank  in,  weighted  with  the  blood  that  flushed  his  face. 
Around  it  on  the  white  linen  there  was  a  spatter  and  splash 
of  mustard  and  water.  His  beard  clung  to  his  chin,  soaked 
in  the  yellowish  stain.  He  breathed  with  a  loud,  grating 
and  groaning  noise. 

Her  ears  were  so  tired  with  listening  to  this  noise  that 
sometimes  they  would  go  to  sleep  for  a  minute  or  two. 
Then  it  would  wake  them  suddenly  and  she  would  begin  to 
cry  again. 

You  could  stop  crying  if  you  looked  steadily  at  the  little 
fluff  of  down.  At  each  groaning  breath  it  quivered  and 
sank  and  quivered. 

Roddy  sat  by  the  dressing-table.  He  stared,  now  at  his 
clenched  hands,  now  at  his  face  in  the  glass,  as  if  he  hated 
it,  as  if  he  hated  himself. 


MATURITY  189 

Mamma  was  still  dressed.  She  had  got  up  on  the  bed 
beside  Papa  and  crouched  on  the  bolster.  She  had  left 
off  crying.  Every  now  and  then  she  stroked  his  hair  with 
tender,  desperate  fingers.  It  struck  out  between  the  white 
ears  of  the  pillow-slip  in  a  thin,  pointed  crest. 

Papa's  hair.  His  poor  hair.  These  alterations  of  the 
familiar  person,  the  blood-red  flush,  the  wet,  clinging  beard, 
the  pointed  hair,  stirred  in  her  a  rising  hysteria  of  pity. 

Mamma  had  given  him  the  mustard  and  water.  She 
could  see  the  dregs  in  the  tumbler  on  the  night-table,  and  the 
brown  hen's  feather  they  had  tickled  his  throat  with. 

They  oughtn't  to  have  done  it.  Dr.  Charles  would  not 
have  let  them  do  it  if  he  had  been  there.  They  should  have 
waited.  They  might  have  known  the  choking  and  the 
retching  would  kill  him.  Catty  ought  to  have  known. 
Somewhere  behind  his  eyes  his  life  was  leaking  away  through 
the  torn  net  of  the  blood  vessels,  bleeding  away  over  his 
brain,  under  his  hair,  under  the  tender,  desperate  fingers. 

She  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  pattern  of  the  wall-paper.  A 
purplish  rose-bud  in  a  white  oval  on  a  lavender  ground.  She 
clung  to  it  as  to  some  firm,  safe  centre  of  being. 

VII 

The  first  day.    The  first  evening. 

She  went  on  hushed  feet  down  the  passage  to  let  Dan  in. 
The  squeak  of  the  latch  picked  at  her  taut  nerves. 

She  was  glad  of  the  cold  air  that  rushed  into  the  shut-up, 
soundless  house,  the  sweet,  cold  air  that  hung  about  Dan's 
face  and  tingled  in  the  curling  frieze  of  his  overcoat. 

She  took  him  into  the  lighted  dining-room  where  Roddy 
and  Mamma  waited  for  him.  The  callous  fire  crackled  and 
spurted  brightness.    The  table  was  set  for  Dan's  supper. 

Dan  knew  that  Papa  was  dead.  He  betrayed  his  knowl- 
edge by  the  cramped  stare  of  his  heavy,  gentle  eyes  and 
by  the  shamed,  furtive  movements  of  his  hands  towards  the 
fire.  But  that  was  all.  His  senses  were  still  uncontami- 
nated  by  their  knowledge.  He  had  not  seen  Papa.  He  had 
not  heard  him. 

"  What  was  it?  " 


190  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Apoplexy." 

His  eyes  widened.     Innocent,  vague  eyes  that  didn't  see. 

Their  minds  fastened  on  Dan,  to  get  immunity  for  them- 
selves out  of  his  unconsciousness.  As  long  as  they  could 
keep  him  downstairs,  in  his  innocence,  their  misery  receded 
from  them  a  little  way. 

But  Mamma  would  not  have  it  so.  She  looked  at  Dan. 
Her  eyes  were  dull  and  had  no  more  thought  in  them.  Her 
mouth  quivered.  They  knew  that  she  was  going  to  say 
something.  Their  thread  of  safety  tightened.  In  another 
minute  it  would  snap. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  him?  "  she  said. 

They  waited  for  Dan  to  come  down  from  the  room.  He 
would  not  be  the  same  Dan.  He  would  have  seen  the  white 
sheet  raised  by  the  high  mound  of  the  body  and  by  the  stiff, 
upturned  feet,  and  he  would  have  lifted  the  handkerchief 
from  the  face.  He  would  be  like  them,  and  his  conscious- 
ness would  put  a  sharper  edge  on  theirs.  He  would  be 
afraid  to  look  at  them,  as  they  were  afraid  to  look  at  each 
other,  because  of  what  he  had  seen. 

VIII 

She  lay  beside  her  mother  in  the  strange  spare  room. 

She  had  got  into  bed  straight  from  her  undressing.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  mattress  she  had  seen  her  mother's 
kneeling  body  like  a  dwarfed  thing  trailed  there  from  the 
floor,  and  her  hands  propped  up  on  the  edge  of  the  eider- 
down, ivory-white  against  the  red  and  yellow  pattern,  and 
her  darling  bird's  head  bowed  to  her  finger-tips. 

The  wet  eyelids  had  lifted  and  the  drowned  eyes  had 
come  to  life  again  in  a  brief  glance  of  horror.  Mamma  had 
expected  her  to  kneel  down  and  pray.  In  bed  they  had 
turned  their  backs  on  each  other,  and  she  had  the  feeling 
that  her  mother  shrank  from  her  as  from  somebody  unclean 
who  had  omitted  to  wash  herself  with  prayer.  She  wanted 
to  take  her  mother  in  her  arms  and  hold  her  tight.  But 
she  couldn't.     She  couldn't. 

Suddenly  her  throat  began  to  jerk  with  a  hysterical  spasm. 
She  thought:  "  I  wish  I  had  died  instead  of  Papa." 


MATURITY  191 

She  forced  back  the  jerk  of  her  hysteria  and  lay  still, 
listening  to  her  mother's  sad,  obstructed  breathing  and  her 
soft,  secret  blowing  of  her  nose. 

Presently  these  sounds  became  a  meaningless  rhythm  and 
ceased.  She  was  a  child,  dreaming.  She  stood  on  the 
nursery  staircase  at  Five  Elms;  the  coffin  came  round  the 
turn  and  crushed  her  against  the  banisters;  only  this  time 
she  was  not  afraid  of  it;  she  made  herself  wake  because  of 
something  that  would  happen  next.  The  flagstones  of  the 
passage  were  hard  and  cold  to  her  naked  feet ;  that  was  how 
you  could  tell  you  were  awake.  The  door  of  the  Morfe 
drawing-room  opened  into  Mamma's  old  bedroom  at  Five 
Elms,  and  when  she  came  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  she  saw  her 
father  standing  there.  He  looked  at  her  with  a  mocking, 
ironic  animosity,  so  that  she  knew  he  was  alive.  She 
thought: 

"  It's  all  right.  I  only  dreamed  he  was  dead.  I  shall  tell 
Mamma." 

When  she  really  woke,  two  entities,  two  different  and 
discordant  memories,  came  together  with  a  shock. 

Her  mother  was  up  and  dressed.  She  leaned  over  her, 
tucking  the  blankets  round  her  shoulders  and  saying,  "  Lie 
still  and  go  to  sleep  again,  there's  a  good  girl." 

Her  memory  cleared  and  settled,  filtering,  as  the  light 
filtered  through  the  drawn  blinds.  Mamma  and  she  had 
slept  together  because  Papa  was  dead. 

IX 

"  Mary,  do  you  know  why  you're  crying?  " 

Roddy's  face  was  fixed  in  a  look  of  anger  and  resentment, 
and  of  anxiety  as  if  he  were  afraid  that  at  any  minute  he 
would  be  asked  to  do  something  that  he  couldn't  do. 

They  had  come  down  together  from  the  locked  room,  and 
gone  into  the  drawing-room  where  the  yellow  blinds  let  in 
the  same  repulsive,  greyish,  ochreish  light. 

Her  tears  did  not  fall.  They  covered  her  eyes  each  with 
a  shaking  lens;  the  chairs  and  tables  floated  up  to  her  as  if 
she  stood  in  an  aquarium  of  thick,  greyish,  ochreish  light. 

"You  think  it's  because  you  care,"  he  said.    "But  it'a 


192  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

because  you  don't  care.  .  ,  .    You're  not  as  bad  as  I  am. 
I  don't  care  a  bit." 

"  Yes,  you  do,  or  you  wouldn't  think  you  didn't." 

"  No.  None  of  us  really  cares.  Except  Mamma.  And 
even  she  doesn't  as  much  as  she  thinks  she  does.  If  we 
cared  we'd  be  glad  to  sit  in  there,  doing  nothing,  thinking 
about  him.  .  .  .  That's  why  we  keep  on  going  upstairs  to 
look  at  him,  to  make  ourselves  feel  as  if  we  cared." 

She  wondered.  Was  that  really  why  they  did  it?  She 
thought  it  was  because  they  couldn't  bear  to  leave  him 
there,  four  days  and  four  nights,  alone.  She  said  so.  But 
Roddy  went  on  in  his  hard,  flat  voice,  beating  out  his  truth. 

"  We  never  did  anything  to  make  him  happy." 

"He  ivas  happy,"  she  said.  ''When  Mark  went.  He 
had  Mamma." 

"  Yes,  but  he  must  have  known  about  us.  He  must  have 
known  about  us  all  the  time." 

"  What  did  he  know  about  us?  " 

"  That  we  didn't  care. 

"  Don't  you  remember,"  he  said,  "  the  things  we  used  to 
say  about  him?  " 

She  remembered.  She  could  see  Dan  in  the  nursery  at 
Five  Elms,  scowling  and  swearing  he  would  kill  Papa.  She 
could  see  Roddy,  and  Mark  with  his  red  tight  face,  laugh- 
ing at  him.  She  could  see  herself,  a  baby,  kicking  and 
screaming  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms.  For  months  she 
hadn't  thought  about  him  except  to  wish  he  wasn't  there 
so  that  she  could  go  on  playing.  When  he  was  in  the  fit 
she  had  been  playing  on  the  Kendals'  piano,  conceited  and 
happy,  not  caring. 

Supposing  all  the  time,  deep  down,  in  his  secret  mys- 
terious life,  he  had  cared? 

"  We  must  leave  off  thinking  about  him,"  Roddy  said. 
"  If  we  keep  on  thinking  we  shall  go  off  our  heads." 

"  We  are  off  our  heads,"  she  said. 

Their  hatred  of  themselves  was  a  biting,  aching  madness. 
She  hated  the  conceited,  happy  self  that  hadn't  cared.  The 
piano,  gleaming  sombrely  in  the  hushed  light,  reminded  her 
of  it. 

She  hated  the  piano. 


MATURITY  193 

They  dragged  themselves  back  into  the  dining-room 
where  Mamma  and  Dan  sat  doing  nothing,  hiding  their 
faces  from  each  other.  The  afternoon  went  on.  Utter  cal- 
lousness, utter  weariness  came  over  them. 

Their  mother  kept  looking  at  the  clock.  "  Uncle  Victor 
will  have  got  to  Durlingham,"  she  said.  An  hour  ago  she 
had  said,  *'  Uncle  Victor  will  have  got  to  York."  Their 
minds  clung  to  Uncle  Victor  as  they  had  clung,  four  days 
ago,  to  Dan,  because  of  his  unconsciousness. 


Uncle  Victor  had  put  his  arm  on  her  shoulder.  He  was 
leaning  rather  heavily. 

He  saw  what  she  saw:  the  immense  coflBn  set  up  on 
trestles  at  the  foot  of  the  bed;  the  sheeted  body  packed  tight 
in  the  padded  white  lining,  the  hands,  curling  a  little,  smooth 
and  stiff,  the  hands  of  a  wax  figure;  the  firm,  sallowish  white 
face;  the  brown  stains,  like  iodine,  about  the  nostrils;  the 
pale  under  lip  pushed  out,  proudly. 

A  cold,  thick  smell,  like  earth  damped  with  stagnant 
water,  came  up  to  them,  mixed  with  the  sharp,  piercing 
smell  of  the  coffin.  The  vigilant,  upright  coffin-lid  leaned 
with  its  sloping  shoulders  against  the  chimney-piece,  ready. 

In  spite  of  his  heaw  hand  she  was  aware  that  Uncle 
Victor's  consciousness  of  these  things  was  different  from 
hers.  He  did  not  appear  to  be  in  the  least  sorry  for  Papa. 
On  his  face,  wistful,  absorbed,  there  was  a  faint,  incongruous 
smile.  He  might  have  been  watching  a  child  playing  some 
mysterious  game. 

He  sighed.  His  eyes  turned  from  the  coffin  to  the  coflfin- 
lid.     He  stared  at  the  black  letters  on  the  shining  brass  plate. 

Emilius  Olivier. 

Born  November  13th,  1827. 

Died  Januarv  2nd,  1881. 

The  grip  on  her  shoulder  tightened. 
"  He  was  faithful,  Mary." 

He  said  it  as  if  he  were  telling  her  something  she  cou.ldn't 
possibly  have  known. 
o 


194  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


XI 

The  funeral  woke  her.  A  line  of  light  slid  through  the 
chink  of  the  door,  crooked  itself  and  staggered  across  the 
ceiling,  a  blond  triangle  throwing  the  shadows  askew.  That 
was  Catty,  carrying  the  lamp  for  the  bearers. 

It  came  again.  There  was  a  shuffling  of  feet  in  the 
passage,  a  secret  muttering  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the 
crack  of  a  banister,  a  thud  as  the  shoulder  of  the  coflfin 
butted  against  the  wall  at  the  turn.  Then  the  grinding 
scream  of  the  brakes  on  the  hill,  the  long  "  Shr-issh  "  of  the 
checked  wheels  ploughing  through  the  snow. 

She  could  see  her  mother's  face  on  the  pillow,  glimmering, 
with  shut  eyes.  At  each  sound  she  could  hear  her  draw  a 
shaking,  sobbing  breath.  She  turned  to  her  and  took  her 
in  her  arms.  The  small,  stiff  body  yielded  to  her,  helpless, 
like  a  child's. 

"  Oh  Mary,  what  shall  I  do?  To  send  him  away  like  that 
—  in  a  train  —  all  the  way.  .  .  .  Your  Grandmamma  Olivier 
tried  to  keep  him  from  me,  and  now  he's  gone  back  to  her." 

"  You've  got  Mark." 

''What's  that  you  say?" 

"  Mark.  Mark.  Nobody  can  keep  Mark  from  you. 
He'll  never  want  anybody  but  you.     He  said  so." 

How  small  she  was.  You  could  feel  her  little  shoulder- 
blades,  weak  and  fine  under  your  fingers,  like  a  child's;  you 
could  break  them.  To  be  happy  with  her  either  you  or  she 
had  to  be  broken,  to  be  helpless  and  little  like  a  child.  It 
was  a  sort  of  happiness  to  lie  there,  holding  her,  hiding  her 
from  the  dreadful  funeral  dawn. 

Five  o'clock. 

The  funeral  would  last  till  three,  going  along  the  road  to 
Reybum  Station,  going  in  the  train  from  Reyburn  to  Dur- 
lingham,  from  Durlingham  to  King's  Cross.  She  wondered 
whether  Dan  and  Roddy  would  keep  on  feeling  the  funeral 
all  the  time.  The  train  was  part  of  it.  Not  the  worst  part. 
Not  so  bad  as  going  through  the  East  End  to  the  City  of 
London  Cemetery. 

When  it  came  to  the  City  of  London  Cemetery  her  mind 
stopped  with  a  jerk  and  refused  to  follow  the  funeral  any 
further. 


MATURITY  195 

Ten  o'clock.    Eleven. 

They  had  shut  themselves  up  in  the  dining-room,  in  the 
yellow-ochreish  light.  Mamma  sat  in  her  arm-chair,  tired 
and  patient,  holding  her  Bible  and  her  Church  Service  on 
her  knees,  ready.  Every  now  and  then  she  dozed.  When 
this  happened  Mary  took  the  Bible  from  her  and  read  where 
it  opened:  "And  he  made  the  candlestick  of  pure  gold:  of 
beaten  work  made  he  the  candlestick;  his  shaft,  and  his 
branch,  his  bowls,  his  knops,  and  his  flowers,  were  of  the 
same.  .  .  .  And  in  the  candlestick  were  four  bowls  made 
like  almonds,  his  knops  and  his  flowers:  And  a  knop  under 
two  branches  of  the  same,  and  a  knop  under  two  branches 
of  the  same,  and  a  knop  under  two  branches  of  the  same, 
according  to  the  six  branches  going  out  of  it.  Their  knops 
and  their  branches  were  of  the  same:  all  of  it  was  one 
beaten  work  of  pure  gold." 

At  two  o'clock  the  bell  of  Renton  Church  began  to  toll. 
Her  mother  sat  up  in  a  stiff,  self-conscious  attitude  and 
opened  the  Church  Service.  The  bell  went  on  tolling.  For 
Papa. 

It  stopped.     Her  mother  was  saying  something. 

"  Mary  —  I  can't  see  with  the  blind  down.  Do  you  think 
you  could  read  it  to  me?  " 


"  *  I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life  —  '  " 

A  queer,  jarring  voice  burst  out  violently  in  the  dark 
quiet  of  the  room.  It  carried  each  sentence  with  a  rush, 
making  itself  steady  and  hard. 

" '.  .  .  He  that  believeth  in  me,  though  he  were  dead, 
yet  shall  he  live.  .  .  . 

"  '  I  said,  I  will  take  heed  to  my  ways:  that  I  offend  not 
with  my  tongue  —  '  " 

"  Not  that  one,"  her  mother  said. 

"  '  0  Lord,  Thou  hast  been  our  refuge;  from  one  genera- 
tion to  another. 

"  '  Before  the  mountains  were  brought  forth,  or  ever  the 
earth  and  the  world  were  made  — '  " 

(Too  fast.  Much  too  fast.  You  were  supposed  to  be 
following  Mr.  Propart;  but  if  you  kept  up  that  pace  you 


196  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

would  have  finished  the  Service  before  he  had  got  through 
the  Psalm.) 

'' '  Lord  God  most  holy  —  '  " 

"  I  can't  hear  you,  Mary." 

"  I'm  sorry.  '  O  Lord  most  mighty,  O  holy  and  most 
merciful  Saviour,  deliver  us  not  into  the  bitter  pains  of 
eternal  death. 

"'Thou  knowest.  Lord,  the  secrets  of  our  hearts:  shut 
not  Thy  merciful  ears  to  our  prayers:  but  spare  us.  Lord 
most  holy,  O  God  most  mighty,  0  holy  and  merciful 
Saviour  — '  " 

(Prayers,  abject  prayers  for  themselves.  None  for  him. 
Not  one  word.  They  were  cowards,  afraid  for  themselves, 
afraid  of  death;  their  funk  had  made  them  forget  him.  It 
was  as  if  they  didn't  believe  that  he  was  there.  And,  after 
all,  it  was  his  funeral.) 

"  '  Suffer  us  not,  at  our  last  hour  —  '  " 

The  hard  voice  staggered  and  dropped,  picked  itself  and 
continued  on  a  note  of  defiance. 

"  '  .  .  .  For  any  pains  of  death,  to  fall  from  Thee.  .  .  .'  " 

(They  would  have  come  to  the  grave  now,  by  the  black 
pointed  cypresses.  There  would  be  a  long  pit  of  yellow  clay 
instead  of  the  green  grass  and  the  white  curb.  Dan  and 
Roddy  would  be  standing  by  it.) 

"  '  Forasmuch  as  it  hath  pleased  Almighty  God  of  His 
mercy  to  take  unto  Himself  the  soul  of  our  dear  brother — '  " 

The  queer,  violent  voice  stopped. 

"I  can't  — I  can't." 

Mamma  seemed  gratified  by  her  inability  to  fini&h  the 
Order  for  the  Burial  of  the  Dead. 


xn 

"  You  can  say  that,  with  your  poor  father  lying  in  his 
grave  —  " 

It  was  the  third  evening  after  the  funeral.  A  minute  ago 
they  were  at  perfect  peace,  and  now  the  everlasting  dispute 
about  religion  had  begun  again.  There  had  been  no  Prayers 
since  Papa  died,  because  Mamma  couldn't  trust  herself  to 


MATURITY  197 

read  them  without  breaking  down.  At  the  same  time,  it 
was  inconceivable  to  her  that  there  should  be  no  Prayers. 

"  I  should  have  thought,  if  you  could  read  the  Burial 
Service  —  " 

"  I  only  did  it  because  you  asked  me  to." 

"  Then  you  might  do  this  because  I  ask  you." 

"  It  isn't  the  same  thing.  You  haven't  got  to  believe  in 
the  Burial  Service.  But  either  you  believe  in  Prayers  or 
you  don't  believe  in  them.  If  you  don't  you  oughtn't  to 
rend  them.     You  oughtn't  to  be  asked  to  read  them." 

"  How  are  we  going  on,  I  should  like  to  know?  Sup- 
posing I  was  to  be  laid  aside,  are  there  to  be  no  Prayers, 
ever,  in  this  house  because  you've  set  yourself  up  in  your 
silly  self-conceit  against  the  truth?  " 

The  truth.  The  truth  about  God.  As  if  anybody  really 
knew  it;  as  if  it  mattered;  as  if  anything  mattered  except 
Mamma. 

Yet  it  did  matter.  It  mattered  more  than  anything  in  the 
whole  world,  the  truth  about  God,  the  truth  about  anything; 
just  the  truth.  Papa's  death  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It 
wasn't  fair  of  Mamma  to  talk  as  if  it  had;  to  bring  it  up 
against  you  like  that. 

"  Let's  go  to  bed,"  she  said. 

Her  mother  took  no  notice  of  the  suggestion.  She  sat 
bolt  upright  in  her  chair;  her  face  had  lost  its  look  of 
bored,  Aveary  patience;  it  flushed  and  flickered  with  resent- 
ment. 

"  I  shall  send  for  Aunt  Bella,"  she  said. 

"Why  Aunt  Bella?" 

"  Because  I  must  have  someone.    Someone  of  my  own." 

XIII 

It  was  three  weeks  now  since  the  funeral. 

Mamma  and  Aunt  Bella  sat  in  the  dining-room,  one  on 
each  side  of  the  fireplace.  Mamma  looked  strange  and 
sunken  and  rather  yellow  in  a  widow's  cap  and  a  black 
knitted  shawl,  but  Aunt  Bella  had  turned  herself  into  a  large, 
comfortable  sheep  by  means  of  a  fleece  of  white  shawl  and 
an  ice-wool  hood  peaked  over  her  cap. 


198  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

There  was  a  sweet,  inky  smell  of  black  things  dyed  at 
Pullar's.  Mary  picked  out  the  white  threads  and  pretended 
to  listen  while  Aunt  Bella  talked  to  Mamma  in  a  woolly 
voice  about  Aunt  Lavvy's  friendship  with  the  Unitarian 
minister,  and  Uncle  Edward's  lumbago,  and  the  unreason- 
ableness of  the  working  classes. 

She  thought  how  clever  it  was  of  Aunt  Bella  to  be  able 
to  keep  it  up  like  that.  "  I  couldn't  do  it  to  save  my  life. 
As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  never  be  any  good  to  Mamma." 

The  dining-room  looked  like  Mr.  Metcalfe,  the  under- 
taker. Funereal  hypocrisy.  She  wondered  whether  Roddy 
would  see  the  likeness. 

She  thought  of  Roddy's  nervous  laugh  when  Catty  brought 
in  the  first  Yorkshire  cakes.  His  eyes  had  stared  at  her 
steadily  as  he  bit  into  his  piece,  they  had  said:  "You 
don't  care.  You  don't  care.  If  you  really  cared  you 
couldn't  eat." 

There  were  no  more  threads  to  pick. 

She  wondered  whether  she  would  be  thought  unfeeling  if 
she  were  to  take  a  book  and  read. 

Aunt  Bella  began  to  talk  about  Roddy.  Uncle  Edward 
said  Roddy  ought  to  go  away  and  get  something  to  do. 

If  Roddy  went  away  there  would  be  no  one.     No  one. 

She  got  up  suddenly  and  left  them. 

XIV 

The  air  of  the  drawing-room  braced  her  like  the  rigour  of 
a  cold  bath.  Her  heartache  loosened  and  lost  itself  in  the 
long  shiver  of  chilled  flesh. 

The  stone  walls  were  clammy  with  the  sweat  of  the  thaw; 
they  gave  out  a  sour,  sickly  smell.  Grey  smears  of  damp 
dulled  the  polished  lid  of  the  piano. 

They  hadn't  used  the  drawing-room  since  Papa  died.  It 
was  so  bright,  so  heartlessly  cheerful  compared  with  the 
other  rooms,  you  could  see  that  Mamma  would  think  you 
unfeeling  if  you  wanted  to  sit  in  it  when  Papa  was  dead. 
She  had  told  Catty  not  to  light  the  fire  and  to  keep  the  door 
shut,  for  fear  you  should  be  tempted  to  sit  in  it  and  forget. 

The  piano.     Under  the  lid  the  keys  were  stiffening  with 


MATURITY  199 

the  damp.  The  hammers  were  swelling,  sticking  together. 
She  tried  not  to  think  of  the  piano. 

She  turned  her  back  on  it  and  stood  by  the  side  window 
that  looked  out  on  to  the  garden.  Mamma's  garden.  It 
mouldered  between  the  high  walls  blackened  by  the  thaw. 
On  the  grass-plot  the  snow  had  sunk  to  a  thin  crust,  black- 
pitted.  The  earth  was  a  black  ooze  through  ulcers  of  grey 
snow. 

She  had  a  sudden  terrifying  sense  of  desolation. 

Her  mind  clutched  at  this  feeling  and  referred  it  to  her 
father.  It  sent  out  towards  him,  wherever  he  might  be,  a 
convulsive  emotional  cry. 

"  You  were  wrong.  I  do  care.  Can't  you  see  that  I  can 
never  be  happy  again?  Yet,  if  you  could  come  back  1 
would  be  happy.  I  wouldn't  mind  your  —  your  little  funny 
ways." 

It  wasn't  true.  She  would  mind  them.  If  he  were  really 
there  he  would  know  it  wasn't  true. 

She  turned  and  looked  again  at  the  piano.  She  went  to 
it.  She  opened  the  lid  and  sat  down  before  it.  Her  fingers 
crept  along  the  keyboard;  they  flickered  over  the  notes  of 
the  Sonata  Appassionata:  a  ghostly,  furtive  playing,  with- 
out pressure,  without  sound. 

And  she  was  ashamed  as  if  the  piano  were  tempting  her 
to  some  cruel,  abominable  sin. 


XXII 


The  consultation  had  lasted  more  than  an  hour. 

From  the  cobbled  square  outside  you  could  see  them 
through  the  window.  Mamma,  Uncle  Edward,  Uncle  Victor 
and  Farmer  Alderson,  sitting  round  the  dining-room  table 
and  talking,  talking,  talking  about  Roddy. 

It  was  awful  to  think  that  things  —  things  that  concerned 
you  —  could  go  on  and  be  settled  over  your  head  without 
your  knowing  anything  about  it.  She  only  knew  that  Papa 
had  made  Uncle  Victor  and  Uncle  Edward  the  trustees  and 


200  MARY    OLIVIER:    A    LIFE 

guardians  of  his  children  who  should  be  under  age  at  his 
death  (she  and  Roddy  were  under  age),  and  that  Mamma 
had  put  the  idea  of  farming  in  Canada  into  Uncle  Edward's 
head,  and  that  Uncle  Victor  had  said  he  wouldn't  hear  of 
letting  Roddy  go  out  by  himself,  and  that  the  landlord  of 
the  Buck  Hotel  had  told  Victor  that  Farmer  Alderson's 
brother  Ben  had  a  big  farm  somewhere  near  Montreal  and 
young  Jem  Alderson  was  going  out  to  him  in  March  and 
they  might  come  to  some  arrangement. 

They  were  coming  to  it  now. 

Roddy  and  she,  crouching  beside  each  other  on  the  hearth- 
rug in  the  drawing-room,  waited  till  it  should  be  over. 
Through  the  shut  doors  they  could  still  distinguish  Uncle 
Edward's  smooth,  fat  voice  from  Uncle  Victor's  thin  one. 
The  booming  and  baying  were  the  noises  made  by  Farmer 
Alderson. 

''  I  can't  think  what  they  want  to  drag  him  in  for,"  Roddy 
said.     "  It'll  only  make  it  more  unpleasant  for  them." 

Roddy's  eyes  had  lost  their  fear;  they  were  fixed  in  a 
wise,  mournful  stare.     He  stared  at  his  fate. 

"  They  don't  know  yet  quite  how  imbecile  I  am.  If  I 
could  have  gone  out  quietly  by  myself  they  never  need  have 
known.  Now  they'll  have  to.  Alderson'll  tell  them.  He'll 
tell  everybody.  ...  I  don't  care.  It's  their  own  look-out. 
They'll  soon  see  I  was  right." 

"  Listen,"  she  said. 

The  dining-room  door  had  opened.  Uncle  Edward's  voice 
came  out  first,  sounding  with  a  sort  of  complacent  finality. 
They  must  have  settled  it.  You  could  hear  Farmer  Aider- 
son  stumping  his  way  to  the  front  door.  His  voice  boomed 
from  the  step. 

"  Ah  doan't  saay,  look  ye,  'e'll  mak  mooch  out  of  en  t' 
farst  ye-ear —  " 

"  Damn  him,  you  can  hear  his  beastly  voice  all  over  the 
place." 

"  Ef  yore  yoong  mon's  dead  set  to  lam  fa-armin',  an'  ef 
'e've  got  a  head  on  'is  shoulders  our  Jem  can  larn  'en.  Ef 
'e  'aven't,  ah  tall  yo  stra-aight,  Mr.  Ollyveer,  ye  med  joost's 
well  tak  yore  mooney  and  trow  it  in  t'  mistal." 

Roddy  laughed.    "  /  could  have  told  them  that,"  he  said. 


MATURITY  201 

"  Money?  " 

"  Rather.  They  can't  do  it  under  two  hundred  pounds. 
I  suppose  Victor'll  stump  up  as  usual." 

"  Poor  Victor." 

"  Victor  won't  mind.  He'll  do  anything  for  Mamma. 
They  can  call  it  a  premium  if  it  makes  them  any  happier, 
but  it  simply  means  that  they're  paying  Alderson  to  get 
rid  of  me." 

"  No.  They've  got  it  into  their  heads  that  it's  bad  for 
you  sticking  here  doing  nothing." 

"  So  it  is.  But  being  made  to  do  what  I  can't  do's 
worse.  .  .  .  I'm  not  likely  to  do  it  any  better  with  that 
young  beast  Alderson  looking  at  mc  all  the  time  and  think- 
ing what  a  bloody  fool  I  am.  .  .  .  They  ought  to  have  left 
it  to  me.  It  would  have  come  a  lot  cheaper.  I  was  going 
anyhow.  I  only  stayed  because  of  Papa.  But  I  can't  tell 
them  that.  After  all,  I  was  the  only  one  who  looked  after 
him.     If  I'd  gone  you'd  have  had  to." 

"  Yes." 

"  It  would  even  come  cheaper,"  he  said,  "  if  I  stayed.  I 
can  prove  it." 

He  produced  his  pocket  sketch-book.  The  leaves  were 
scribbled  over  with  sums,  sums  desperately  begun  and  left 
unfinished,  sums  that  were  not  quite  sure  of  themselves, 
sums  scratched  out  and  begun  again.  He  crossed  them  all 
out  and  started  on  a  fresh  page. 

"  Premium,  two  hundred.  Passage,  tw^enty.  Outfit,  say 
thirty.     Two  hundred  and  fifty. 

"  Land  cheap,  lumber  cheap.  Labour  expensive.  Still, 
Alderson  would  he  so  pleased  he  might  do  the  job  himself  for 
a  nominal  sum  and  only  charge  you  for  the  wood.  Funeral 
expenses,  say  ten  dollars. 

''  How  much  does  it  cost  to  keep  me  here?  " 

"  I  haven't  an  idea." 

"  No,  but  think." 

"  I  can't  think." 

"  Well,  say  I  eat  ten  shillings'  worth  of  food  per  week, 
that's  twenty-six  pounds  a  year.  Say  thirty.  Clothes,  five. 
Thirty-five.  Sundries,  perhaps  five.  Forty.  But  I  do  the 
garden.    What's  a  gardener's  wages?     Twenty?     Fifteen? 


202  MARY    OLIVIER:     A    LIFE 

Say  fifteen.  Fifteen  from  forty,  fifteen  from  forty  — 
twenty-five.     How  much  did  Papa's  funeral  come  to?  " 

"  Oh  —  Roddy  —  I  don't  know." 

"  Say  thirty.  Twenty- five  from  two  hundred  and  fifty, 
two  hundred  and  twenty-five.  Deduct  funeral  One  hun- 
dred and  ninety-five. 

"  There  you  are.  One  hundred  and  ninety-five  pounds 
for  carting  me  to  Canada." 

"  If  you  feel  like  that  about  it  you  ought  to  tell  them. 
They  can't  make  you  go  if  you  don't  w\ant  to." 

"  They're  not  making  me  go.  I'm  going.  I  couldn't  pos- 
sibly stay  after  the  beastlv  things  they've  said." 

''What  sort  of  things?  "^ 

"  About  my  keep  and  my  being  no  good  and  making  work 
in  the  house." 

"  They  didn't  —  they  couldn't." 

"  Edward  did.  He  said  if  it  wasn't  for  me  Mamma 
wouldn't  have  to  have  Maggie.  Catty  could  do  all  the 
work.  And  when  Victor  sat  on  him  and  said  Mamma 
was  to  have  Maggie  whatever  happened,  he  jawed  back  and 
said  she  couldn't  afford  both  Maggie  and  me." 

"  Catty  could  do  Maggie's  work  and  I  could  do  Catty's, 
if  you'd  stop.  It  would  be  only  cleaning  things.  That's 
nothing.     I'd  rather  clean  the  whole  house  and  have  you." 

"  You  wouldn't.     You  onlv  think  you  would." 

"  I  would,  really.     I'll  telfthem." 

"  It's  no  use,"  he  said.     ''  They  won't  let  you." 

"  I'll  make  them.  I'll  go  and  tell  Edward  and  Victor 
now." 

She  had  shot  up  from  the  floor  with  sudden  energy,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  Roddy  as  he  still  crouched  there. 
Her  heart  ached  for  him.  He  didn't  want  to  go  to  Canada ; 
he  wanted  to  stay  with  Mamma,  and  Mamma  was  driving 
him  away  from  her,  for  no  reason  except  that  Uncle  Edward 
said  he  ought  to  go. 

She  could  hear  the  dining-room  door  open  and  shut  again. 
They  were  coming. 

Roddy  rose  from  the  floor.  He  drew  himself  up,  stretch- 
ing out  his  arms  in  a  crucified  attitude,  and  grinned  at  her. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  he  said,  "  I'd  let  you?  " 


MATURITY  203 

He  grinned  at  Uncle  Edward  and  Uncle  Victor  as  they 
came  in. 

"  Uncle  Victor,"  she  said,  "  Why  should  Roddy  go 
away?  If  it's  Maggie,  we  don't  really  want  her.  I'll  do 
Catty's  work  and  he'll  do  the  garden.  So  he  can  stay, 
can't  he?  " 

"  He  can,  Mar>',  but  I  don't  think  he  will." 

"  Of  course  I  won't.  If  you  hadn't  waited  to  mix  me  up 
with  Alderson  I  could  have  cleared  out  and  got  there  by  this 
time.  You  don't  suppose  I  was  going  to  sponge  on  my 
mother  for  ever,  do  you?  " 

He  stood  there,  defying  Uncle  Edward  and  Uncle  Victor, 
defying  their  thoughts  of  him.  She  wondered  whether  he 
had  forgotten  the  two  hundred  pounds  and  whether  they 
were  thinking  of  it.  They  didn't  answer,  and  Roddy,  after 
fixing  on  them  a  look  they  couldn't  meet,  strode  out  of  the 
room. 

She  thought:  How  like  Mark  he  is,  with  his  tight,  squared 
shoulders,  holding  his  head  high.  His  hair  was  like  Mark's 
hair,  golden  brown,  close  clipped  to  the  nape  of  his  neck. 
When  he  had  gone  it  would  be  like  Mark's  going. 

"  It's  better  he  should  go,"  Uncle  Victor  said.  "  For  his 
own  sake." 

Uncle  Edw\ard  said,  "  Of  course  it  is." 

His  little  blue  eyes  glanced  up  from  the  side  of  his  nose, 
twinkling.  His  mouth  stretched  from  white  whisker  to 
white  whisker  in  a  smile  of  righteous  benevolence.  But 
Uncle  Victor's  eyes  slunk  away  as  if  he  were  ashamed  of 
himself. 

It  was  Uncle  Victor  who  had  paid  the  two  hundred  pounds. 

II 

"  Supposing  there's  something  the  matter  with  him,  will 
he  still  have  to  go?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  suppose  there's  anything  the 
matter  with  him,"  her  mother  said.  "  Is  it  likely  your 
Uncle  Victor  would  be  paying  all  that  money  to  send  him 
out  if  he  wasn't  fit  to  go?  " 

It    didn't    seem    likely    that    Victor    would    have    done 


204  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

anj^thing  of  the  sort;  any  more  than  Uncle  Edward  would 
have  let  Aunt  Bella  give  him  an  overcoat  lined  with  black 
jennet. 

They  were  waiting  for  Roddy  to  come  back  from  the 
doctor's.  Before  Uncle  Victor  left  Morfe  he  had  made 
Roddy  promise  that  for  Mamma's  satisfaction  he  would  go 
and  be  overhauled.  And  it  was  as  if  he  had  said  "  You'll 
see  then  how  much  need  there  is  to  worry." 

You  might  have  kept  on  hoping  that  something  would 
happen  to  prevent  Roddy's  going  but  for  the  size  and  solidity 
and  expensiveness  of  the  preparations.  You  might  forget 
that  his  passage  was  booked  for  the  first  Saturday  in  March, 
that  to-day  was  the  first  Wednesday,  that  Victor's  two  hun- 
dred pounds  had  been  paid  to  Jem  Alderson's  account  at 
the  bank  in  Montreal,  and  still  the  black  jennet  lining  of  the 
overcoat  shouted  at  you  that  nothing  could  stop  Roddy's 
going  now.  Uncle  Victor  might  be  reckless,  but  Uncle  Ed- 
ward and  Aunt  Bella  took  no  risks. 

Unless,  after  all,  Dr.  Kendal  stopped  it  — if  he  said 
Roddy  mustn't  go. 

She  could  hear  Roddy's  feet  coming  back.  They  sounded 
like  Mark's  feet  on  the  flagged  path  outside. 

He  came  into  the  room  quickly.  His  eyes  shone,  he 
looked  pleased  and  excited. 

Mamma  stirred  in  her  chair. 

"That's  a  bright  face.  We  needn't  ask  if  you've  got 
your  passport,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her,  a  light,  unresting  look. 

"  How  right  you  are,"  he  said.     "  And  wise." 

''  Well,  I  didn't  suppose  there  was  much  the  matter  with 
you." 

''  There  isn't." 

He  went  to  the  bookshelf  where  he  kept  his  drawmg- 

blocks. 

"  I  wouldn't  sit  down  and  draw  if  I  were  you.     There 

isn't  time." 

"  There'll  be  less  after  Saturday." 

He  sat  down  and  began  to  draw.  He  was  as  absorbed 
and  happy  as  if  none  of  them  had  ever  heard  of  Canada. 

He  chanted: 


MATURITY  205 

"  *  Cannon  to  riglit  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them 
Volleyed  and  thundered.'  " 

The  pencil  moved  excitedly.  Volumes  of  smoke  curled 
and  rolled  and  writhed  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  sheet. 
The  guns  of  Balaclava. 

"  '  Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
Rode  the  six  hundred.'  " 

A  rush  of  hoofs  and  heads  and  lifted  blades  on  the  right 
hand.     The  horses  and  swords  of  the  Light  Brigade. 

"  '  Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die  '  "  — 

"  You  ought  to  be  a  soldier,  Roddy,  like  Mark,  not  a 
farmer." 
"Oh  wise!     Oh  right! 

"  '  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 
Someone  had  blundered.'  " 


III 

She  was  going  up  the  schoolhouse  lane  towards  Karva, 
because  Roddy  and  she  had  gone  that  way  together  on 
Friday,  his  last  evening. 

It  was  Sunday  now;  six  o'clock:  the  time  he  used  to 
bring  Papa  home.  His  ship  would  have  left  Queenstown,  it 
would  be  steering  to  the  west. 

She  wondered  how  much  he  had  really  minded  going. 
Perhaps  he  had  only  been  afraid  he  wouldn't  be  strong 
enough;  for  after  he  had  seen  the  doctor  he  had  been  dif- 
ferent. Pleased  and  excited.  Perhaps  he  didn't  mind  so 
very  much. 


206  MARY    OLIVIER:     A   LIFE 

If  she  could  only  remember  how  he  had  looked  and  what 
he  had  said.  He  had  talked  sibout  the  big  Atlantic  liner, 
and  the  Canadian  forests.  With  luck  the  voyage  might  last 
eleven  or  twelve  clear  days.  You  could  shoot  moose  and 
wapiti.  Wapiti  and  elk.  Elk.  With  his  eyes  shining.  He 
was  not  quite  sure  about  the  elk.  He  wished  he  had  written 
to  the  High  Commissioner  for  Canada  about  the  elk.  That 
was  what  the  Commissioner  was  there  for,  to  answer  ques- 
tions, to  encourage  you  to  go  to  his  beastly  country. 

She  could  hear  Roddy's  voice  saying  these  things  as  they 
walked  over  Karva.  He  was  turning  it  all  into  an  adven- 
ture, his  imagination  playing  round  and  round  it.  And  on 
Saturday  morning  he  had  been  sick  and  couldn't  eat  his 
breakfast.  Mamma  had  been  sorry,  and  at  the  same  time 
vexed  and  irritable  as  if  she  were  afraid  that  the  arrange- 
ments might,  after  all,  be  upset.  But  in  the  end  he  had 
gone  off,  pleased  and  excited,  with  Jem  Alderson  in  the  train. 

She  could  see  Jem's  wide  shoulders  pushing  through  the 
carriage  door  after  Roddy.  He  had  a  gentle,  reddish  face 
and  long,  hanging  moustaches  like  a  dying  Gladiator.  Little 
eyes  that  screwed  up  to  look  at  you.  He  would  be  good  to 
Roddy. 

It  would  be  all  right. 

She  stood  still  in  the  dark  lane.  A  disturbing  memory 
gnawed  its  w^ay  through  her  thoughts  that  covered  it:  the 
w'ay  Roddy  had  looked  at  Mamma,  that  Wednesday,  the 
way  he  had  spoken  to  her.     "  Oh  wise.     Oh  right!  " 

That  was  because  he  believed  she  wanted  him  to  go  away. 
He  couldn't  believe  that  she  really  cared  for  him;  that 
Mamma  really  cared  for  anybody  but  Mark;  he  couldn't 
believe  that  anybody  cared  for  him. 

"  '  Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 
Rode  the  six  hundred.'  " 

Roddy's  chant  pursued  her  up  the  lane. 

The  gate  at  the  top  fell  to  behind  her.  Moor  grass 
showed  grey  among  black  heather.  She  half  saw%  half  felt 
her  way  along  the  sheep  tracks.  There,  where  the  edge  of 
the  round  pit  broke  away,  was  the  place  where  Roddy  had 
stopped  suddenly  in  front  of  her. 


MATURITY  207 

"  I  wouldn't  mind  a  bit  if  I  hadn't  been  such  a  brute  to 
little  Mamma.  Why  arc  wc  such  brutes  to  her?  "  He  had 
turned  in  the  narrow  moor-track  and  faced  her  with  his 
question:  "Why?" 

"  '  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade! 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 
Someone  had  blundered  '  "  — 

Hunderd  —  blundered.  Did  Tennyson  really  call  hundred 
hunderd? 

The  grey  curve  of  the  high  road  glimmered  alongside  the 
moor.  From  the  point  where  her  track  joined  it  she  could 
see  three  lights,  two  moving,  one  still.  The  still  light  at  the 
turn  came  from  the  Aldersons'  house.  The  moving  lights 
went  with  the  klomp-klomp  of  hoofs  on  the  road. 

Down  in  the  darkness  beyond  the  fields  Garthdale  lay 
like  a  ditch  under  the  immense  wall  of  Greffington  Edge. 
Roddy  hated  Greffington  Edge.  He  hated  Morfe.  He 
wanted  to  get  away. 

It  would  be  all  right. 

The  klomp-klomping  sounded  close  behind  her.  Two 
shafts  of  light  shot  out  in  front,  white  on  the  grey  road. 
Dr.  Kendal  drove  past  in  his  dog-cart.  He  leaned  out  over 
the  side,  peering.     She  heard  him  say  something  to  himself. 

The  wheels  slowed  down  with  a  grating  noise.  The  lights 
stood  still.     He  had  pulled  up.    He  was  waiting  for  her. 

She  turned  suddenly  and  went  back  up  the  moor  by  the 
way  she  had  come.  She  didn't  want  to  see  Dr.  Kendal. 
She  was  afraid  he  would  say  something  about  Roddy. 

xxni 
I 

The  books  stood  piled  on  the  table  by  her  window,  the 
books  Miss  Wray  of  Clevehead  had  procured  for  her,  had 
given  and  lent  her.  Now  Roddy  had  gone  she  had  time 
enough  to  read  them:  Hume's  Essays,  the  fat  maroon 
Schwegler,  the  two  volumes  of  Kant  in  the  hedgesparrow- 
green  paper  covers. 


208  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Kritik  der  reinen  Vernunft.  Kritik  der  reinen  Ver- 
nunft."  She  said  it  over  and  over  to  herself.  It  sounded 
nicer  than  "  The  Critique  of  Pure  Reason."  At  the  sight  of 
the  thick  black  letters  on  the  hedgesparrow-green  ground 
her  heart  jumped  up  and  down  with  excitement.  Lucky  it 
was  in  German,  so  that  Mamma  couldn't  find  out  what  Kant 
was  driving  at.  The  secret  was  hidden  behind  the  thick 
black  bars  of  the  letters. 

In  Schwcgler,  as  you  went  on  you  went  deeper.  You  saw 
thought  folding  and  unfolding,  thought  moving  on  and  on, 
thought  drawing  tlie  universe  to  itself,  pushing  the  universe 
away  from  itself  to  draw  it  back  again,  closer  than  close. 

Space  and  Time  were  forms  of  thought.  They  were  in- 
finite. So  thought  was  infinite ;  it  went  on  and  on  for  ever, 
carrying  Space,  carrying  Time. 

If  only  you  knew  what  the  Thing-in-itself  was. 

11 

"  Mamma  —  " 

The  letter  lay  between  them  on  the  hall  table  by  the 
study  door.  Her  mother  put  her  hand  over  it,  quick.  A 
black,  long-tailed  M  showed  between  her  forefinger  and  her 
thumb. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  and  her  mother's  mouth  began 
to  pout  and  smile  as  it  used  to  when  Papa  said  something 
improper.  She  took  the  letter  and  went,  with  soft  feet  and 
swinging  haunches  like  a  cat  carrying  a  mouse,  into  the 
study.     Mary  stared  at  the  shut  door. 

Maurice  Jourdain.  Maurice  Jourdain.  What  on  earth 
was  he  writing  to  Mamma  for? 

Five  minutes  ago  she  had  been  quiet  and  happy,  reading 
Kant's  Critique  of  Pure  Reason.  Now  her  heart  beat  like  a 
hammer,  staggering  with  its  own  blows.  The  blood  raced 
in  her  brain. 

Ill 

"  Mamma,  if  you  don't  tell  me  I  shall  write  and  ask  him." 
Her  mother  looked  up,  frightened. 
"  You  wouldn't  do  that,  Mary?  " 


MATURITY  209 

"  Oh,  wouldn't  I  though!     I'd  do  it  like  a  shot." 

She  wondered  why  she  hadn't  thought  of  it  an  hour  ago. 

"  Well  —  If  there's  no  other  way  to  stop  you  —  " 

Her  mother  gave  her  the  letter,  picking  it  up  by  one 
corner,  as  though  it  had  been  a  dirty  pocket-handkerchief. 

"  It'll  show  you,"  she  said,  "  the  sort  of  man  he  is." 

Mary  held  the  letter  in  both  her  hands,  gently.  Her  heart 
beat  gently  now  with  a  quiet  feeling  of  happiness  and  sati^■- 
faction.  She  looked  a  long  time  at  the  characters,  the  long- 
tailed  M's,  the  close,  sharp  v's,  the  t's  crossed  with  a  savage, 
downward  stab.  She  was  quiet  as  long  as  she  only  looked. 
When  she  read  the  blood  in  her  brain  raced  faster  and  con- 
fused her.     She  stopped  at  the  bottom  of  the  first  page. 

"  I  can't  think  what  he  means." 

"  It's  pretty  plain  what  he  means,"  her  mother  said. 

"  About  all  those  letters.    What  letters?  " 

"  Letters  he's  been  writing  to  your  father  and  me  and 
your  Uncle  Victor." 

"  When?  " 

"  Ever  since  you  left  school.  You  were  sent  to  school  to 
keep  you  out  of  his  way;  and  you  weren't  back  before  he 
began  his  persecuting.  If  you  want  to  know  why  we  left 
Ilford,  that's  why.  He  persecuted  your  poor  father.  He 
persecuted  your  Uncle  Victor.  And  now  he's  persecuting 
me." 

"  Persecuting?  " 

"  What  is  it  but  persecuting?  Threatening  that  he  won't 
answer  for  the  consequences  if  he  doesn't  get  what  he  wants. 
He's  mistaken  if  he  thinks  that's  the  way  to  get  it." 

"  What  —  does  he  want?  " 

"  I  suppose,"  her  mother  said,  "  he  thinks  he  wants  to 
marry  you." 

"  Me?  He  doesn't  say  that.  He  only  says  he  wants  to 
come  and  see  me.     Why  shouldn't  he?  " 

"  Because  vour  father  didn't  wish  it,  and  your  uncle  and 
I  don't  wish  "it." 

"  You  don't  like  him." 

"  Do  you?  " 

"I  —  love  him." 

"  Nonsense.    You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about. 


210  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

You'd  have  forgotten  all  about  him  if  you  hadn't  seen  that 
letter." 

"  I  thought  he'd  forgotten  me.  You  ought  to  have  told 
me.  It  was  cruel  not  to  tell  me.  He  must  have  loved  me 
all  the  time.  He  said  I  was  to  wait  three  years  and  I 
didn't  know  what  he  meant.  He  must  have  loved  me  then 
and  I  didn't  know  it." 

The  sound  of  her  voice  surprised  her.  It  came  from  her 
whole  body ;  it  vibrated  like  a  violin. 

"  How  could  he  love  you?    You  were  a  child  then." 

"  I'm  not  a  child  now.     You'll  have  to  let  him  marry  me." 

"  I'd  rather  see  you  in  your  coffin.  I'd  rather  see  you 
married  to  poor  Norman  Waugh.  And  goodness  knows  I 
wouldn't  like  that." 

"  Your  mother  didn't  like  your  marrying  Papa." 

"  You  surely  don't  compare  Maurice  Jourdain  with  your 
father?  " 

"  He's  faithful.    Papa  was  faithful.     I'm  faithful  too." 

"  Faithful!    To  a  horrid  man  like  that!  " 

"  He  isn't  horrid.  He's  kind  and  clever  and  good.  He's 
brave,  like  Mark.  He'd  have  been  a  soldier  if  he  hadn't  had 
to  help  his  mother.  And  he's  honourable.  He  said  he 
wouldn't  see  me  or  write  to  me  unless  you  let  him.  And  he 
hasn't  seen  me  and  he  hasn't  written.  You  can't  say  he 
isn't  honourable." 

"  I  suppose,"  her  mother  said,  "  he's  honourable  enough." 

"  You'll  have  to  let  him  come.  If  you  don't,  I  shall  go 
to  him.'" 

"  I  declare  if  you're  not  as  bad  as  your  Aunt  Charlotte." 

IV 

Incredible;  impossible;  but  it  had  happened. 

And  it  was  as  if  she  had  known  it  —  all  the  time,  known 
that  she  would  come  downstairs  that  morning  and  see 
Maurice  Jourdain's  letter  lying  on  the  table.  She  always 
had  known  that  something,  some  wonderful,  beautiful,  tre- 
mendous thing  would  happen  to  her.     This  was  it. 

It  had  been  hidden  in  all  her  happiness.  Her  happiness 
was  it.    Maurice  Jourdain. 


MATURITY  211 

When  she  said  "  Maurice  Jourdain  "  she  could  feel  licr 
voice  throb  in  her  body  like  the  string  of  a  violin.  When 
she  thought  of  Maurice  Jourdain  the  stir  renewed  itself  in 
a  vague,  exquisite  vibration.  The  edges  of  her  mouth  curled 
out  with  faint  throbbing  movements,  suddenly  sensitive,  like 
eyelids,  like  finger-tips. 

Odd  memories  darted  out  at  her.  The  plantation  at 
Ilford.  Jimmy's  mouth  crushing  her  face.  Jimmy's  arms 
crushing  her  chest.  A  scarlet  frock.  The  white  bridge-rail 
by  the  ford.  Bertha  Mitchison,  saying  things,  things  you 
wouldn't  think  of  if  you  could  help  it.  But  she  was  mainly 
aware  of  a  surpassing  tenderness  and  a  desire  to  immolate 
herself,  in  some  remarkable  and  noble  fashion,  for  Maurice 
Jourdain.  If  only  she  could  see  him,  for  ten  minutes,  five 
minutes,  and  tell  him  that  she  hadn't  forgotten  him.  He 
belonged  to  her  real  life.  Her  self  had  a  secret  place  where 
people  couldn't  get  at  it,  where  its  real  life  went  on.  He 
was  the  only  person  she  could  think  of  as  having  a  real  life 
at  all  like  her  own.  She  had  thought  of  him  as  mixed  up 
for  ever  with  her  real  life,  so  that  whether  she  saw^  him  or 
not,  whether  she  remembered  him  or  not,  he  would  be  there. 
He  was  in  the  songs  she  made,  he  was  in  the  Sonata  Appas- 
sionata;  he  was  in  the  solemn  beauty  of  Karva  under  the 
moon.  In  the  Critique  of  Pure  Reason  she  caught  the 
bright  passing  of  his  mind. 

Perhaps  she  had  forgotten  a  little  what  he  looked  like. 
Smoky  black  eyes.  Tired  eyelids.  A  crystal  mind,  shining 
and  flashing.  A  mind  like  a  big  room,  filled  from  end  to 
end  with  light.     Maurice  Jourdain. 


"  I  don't  think  I  should  have  known  you,  Mary." 

Maurice  Jourdain  had  come.  In  the  end  Uncle  Victor 
had  let  him.  He  was  sitting  there,  all  by  himself,  on  the 
sofa  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

It  was  his  third  evening.  She  had  thought  it  was  going 
to  pass  exactly  like  the  other  two,  and  then  her  mother  had 
got  up,  with  an  incredible  suddenness,  and  left  them. 

Through  the  open  window  you  could  hear  the  rain  falling 


212  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

in  the  garden;  you  could  see  the  garden  grey  and  wet  with 
rain. 

She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  fender,  and  without  looking 
up  she  knew  that  he  was  watching  her  from  under  half-shut 
eyelids. 

His  eyelids  were  so  old,  so  tired,  so  very  tired  and  old. 

"  What  did  you  cut  it  all  off  for?  " 

"  Oh,  just  for  fun." 

Without  looking  at  him  she  knew  that  he  had  moved, 
that  his  chin  had  dropped  to  his  chest;  there  would  be  a  sort 
of  pufiiness  in  his  cheeks  and  about  his  jaw  under  the  black, 
close-clipped  beard.  When  she  saw  it  she  felt  a  little  creep- 
ing chill  at  her  heart. 

But  that  was  unfaithfulness,  that  was  cruelty.  If  he 
knew  it  —  poor  thing  —  how  it  would  hurt  him!  But  he 
never  would  know.  She  would  behave  as  though  she  hadn't 
seen  any  difference  in  him  at  all. 

If  only  she  could  set  his  mind  moving;  turn  the  crystal 
about;  make  it  flash  and  shine. 

"  What  have  they  been  doing  to  you?  "  he  said.  "  You 
used  to  be  clever.     I  wonder  if  you're  clever  still." 

"  I  don't  think  I  am,  very." 

She  thought:  "  I'm  stupid.  I'm  as  stupid  as  an  owl.  I 
never  felt  so  stupid  in  all  my  life.  If  only  I  could  think  of 
something  to  say  to  him." 

"Did  they  tell  you  what  I've  come  for?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Are  you  glad?  " 

"  Very  glad." 

"  Why  do  you  sit  on  the  fender?  " 

"  I'm  cold." 

"  Cold  and  glad." 

A  long  pause. 

"  Do  you  know  why  your  mother  hates  me,  Mary?  " 

"  She  doesn't.     She  only  thought  you'd  killed  Papa." 

"  I  didn't  kill  him.  It  wasn't  my  fault  if  he  couldn't  con- 
trol his  temper.  .  .  .  That  isn't  what  she  hates  me  for. 
.  .  .  Do  you  know  why  you  were  sent  to  school  —  the 
school  my  aunt  found  for  you?  " 

"  Well  —  to  keep  me  from  seeing  you." 


MATURITY  213 

"  Yes.  And  because  I  asked  your  father  to  let  me  educate 
you,  since  he  wasn't  doing  it  himself.  I  wanted  to  send  you 
to  a  school  in  Paris  for  two  years." 

"  I  didn't  know.  They  never  told  me.  What  made  you 
want  to  do  all  that  for  me?  " 

"  It  wasn't  for  you.  It  was  for  the  little  girl  who  used 
to  go  for  walks  with  me.  .  .  .  She  was  the  nicest  little  girl. 
She  said  the  j oiliest  things  in  the  dearest  little  voice.  '  How 
can  a  man  like  you  care  to  talk  to  a  child  like  me?  ' " 

"  Did  I  say  that?     I  don't  remember." 

"  She  said  it." 

"  It  sounds  rather  silly  of  her." 

"  She  wasn't  silly.  She  was  clever  as  they  make  them. 
And  she  was  pretty  too.  She  had  lots  of  hair,  hanging  down 
her  back.  Curling.  .  .  .  And  they  take  her  away  from 
me  and  I  wait  three  years  for  her.  She  knew  I  was  waiting. 
And  when  I  come  back  to  her  she  won't  look  at  me.  She 
sits  on  the  fender  and  stares  at  the  fire.  She  wears  horrible 
black  clothes." 

''  Because  Papa's  dead." 

"  She  goes  and  cuts  her  hair  all  off.  That  isn't  because 
your  father's  dead." 

"  It'll  grow  again." 

"  Not  for  another  three  years.  And  I  believe  I  hear  your 
mother  coming  back." 

His  chin  dropped  to  his  chest  again.  He  brooded 
morosely.    Presently  Catty  came  in  with  the  coffee. 

The  next  day  he  was  gone. 

VI 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  her  mother  said,  "  you  only  care  for 
him  when  he  isn't  there." 

He  had  come  again,  twice,  in  July,  in  August.  Each  time 
her  mother  had  said,  "  Are  you  sure  you  want  him  to  come 
again?  You  know  you  weren't  very  happy  the  last  time." 
And  she  had  answered,  "  I  know  I'm  going  to  be  this  time." 

"  You  see,"  she  said,  "  when  he  isn't  there  you  remember, 
and  when  he  is  there  he  makes  you  forget." 

''  Forget  what?  " 


214  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  What  it  used  to  feel  like." 

Mamma  had  smiled  a  funny,  contented  smile.  Mamma 
was  different.  Her  face  had  left  off  being  reproachful  and 
disapproving.  It  had  got  back  the  tender,  adorable  look  it 
used  to  have  when  you  were  little.  She  hated  Maurice  Jour- 
dain,  yet  3'ou  felt  that  in  some  queer  way  she  loved  you 
because  of  him.  You  loved  her  more  because  of  Maurice 
Jourdain. 

The  engagement  happened  suddenly  at  the  end  of  August. 
You  knew  it  would  happen  some  day ;  but  you  thought  of  it 
as  happening  to-morrow  or  the  day  after  rather  than  to-day. 
At  three  o'clock  you  started  for  a  walk,  never  knowing 
how  you  might  come  back,  and  at  five  you  found  yourself 
sitting  at  tea  in  the  orchard,  safe.  He  would  slouch  along 
beside  you,  for  miles,  morosely.  You  thought  of  his  mind 
swinging  off  by  itself,  shining  where  you  couldn't  see  it. 
You  broke  loose  from  him  to  run  tearing  along  the  road, 
to  jump  water-courses,  to  climb  trees  and  grin  down  at  him 
through  the  branches.  Then  he  would  wake  up  from  his 
sulking.  Sometimes  he  would  be  pleased  and  sometimes  he 
wouldn't.  The  engagement  happened  just  after  he  had  not 
been  pleased  at  all. 

She  could  still  hear  his  voice  saying  "  What  do  you  do  it 
for?  "  and  her  own  answering. 

"  You  must  do  something." 

"  You  needn't  dance  jigs  on  the  parapets  of  bridges." 

They  slid  through  the  gap  into  the  fields.  In  the  narrow 
path  he  stopped  suddenly  and  turned. 

"  How  can  a  child  like  you  care  for  a  man  like  me?  " 
Mocking  her  sing-song. 

He  stooped  and  kissed  her.  She  shut  her  eyes  so  as  not 
to  see  the  puffiness. 

"  Will  you  marry  me,  Mary?  " 

vn 

After  the  engagement,  the  quarrel.  It  lasted  all  the  way 
up  the  schoolhouse  lane. 

"  I  do  care  for  you,  I  do,  really." 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.     You  may 


MATURITY  215 

care  for  me  as  a  child  cares.  You  don't  care  as  a  woman 
does.  No  woman  who  cared  for  a  man  would  write  the 
letters  you  do.  I  ask  you  to  tell  me  about  yourself  —  what 
you're  feeling  and  thinking  —  and  you  send  me  some  ghastly 
screed  about  Spinoza  or  Kant.  Do  you  suppose  any  man 
wants  to  hear  what  his  sweetheart  thinks  about  Space  and 
Time  and  the  Ding-an-sich?  " 

"  You  used  to  like  it." 

"  I  don't  like  it  now.  No  woman  would  wear  those  hor- 
rible clothes  if  she  cared  for  a  man  and  wanted  him  to 
care  for  her.     She  wouldn't  cut  her  hair  off." 

"  How  was  I  to  know  you'd  mind  so  awfully?  And  how 
do  you  know  what  women  do  or  don't  do?  " 

"  Has  it  never  occurred  to  you  that  I  might  know  more 
women  than  you  know  men?  That  I  might  have  women 
friends?  " 

"  I  don't  think  I've  thought  about  it  very  much." 

"  Haven't  you?  Men  don't  live  to  be  thirty-seven  with- 
out getting  to  know  women;  they  can't  go  about  the  world 
without  meeting  them.  .  .  .  There's  a  little  girl  down  in 
Sussex.  A  dear  little  girl.  She's  everything  a  man  wants 
a  woman  to  be." 

"  Lots  of  hair?  " 

"  Lots  of  hair.  Stacks  of  it.  And  she's  clever.  She  can 
cook  and  sew  and  make  her  own  clothes  and  her  sisters'. 
She's  kept  her  father's  house  since  she  was  fifteen.  Without 
a  servant." 

"  How  awful  for  her.    And  you  like  her?  " 

"  Yes,  Mary." 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  her.     Who  else?  " 

"  A  Frenchwoman  in  Paris.  And  a  German  woman  in 
Hamburg.  And  an  Englishwoman  in  London ;  the  cleverest 
woman  I  know.  She's  unhappy,  Mar>'.  Her  husband  be- 
haves to  her  like  a  perfect  brute." 

"  Poor  thing.     I  hope  you're  nice  to  her." 

"She  thinks  I  am." 

Silence.     He  peered  into  her  face. 

"  Are  you  jealous  of  her,  Mary?  " 

"  I'm  not  jealous  of  any  of  them.  You  can  marry  them 
all  if  you  want  to." 


216  MARY    OLIVIER:    A    LIFE 

"  I  was  going  to  marrv  one  of  them." 

"  Then  why  didn't  yoii?  " 

"  Because  the  little  girl  in  Essex  wouldn't  let  me." 

"Little  beast!" 

"  So  you're  jealous  of  her,  are  you?  You  needn't  be. 
She's  gone.  She  tried  to  swallow  the  Kritik  der  reinen  Ver- 
nunjt  and  it  disagreed  with  her  and  she  died. 

"  '  Nur  einmal  doch  mocht'  ich  dich  sehen, 
Und  sinken  vor  dir  auf's  Knie, 
Und  sterbend  zu  dir  sprechen, 
Madam,  ich  liebe  Sie!'" 

"  What's  that?     Oh,  what's  that?  " 
"That  —  Madam  —  is  Heine." 


VIII 

"  My  dearest  Maurice  —  " 

It  was  her  turn  for  writing.  She  wondered  whether  he 
would  like  to  hear  about  the  tennis  party  at  the  Vicarage. 
Mr.  Spencer  Rollitt's  nephew,  Harry  Craven,  had  been 
there,  and  the  two  Acroyd  girls  from  Renton  Lodge,  and 
Norman  Waugh. 

Harry  Craven's  fawn  face  with  pointed  chin;  dust-white 
face  with  black  accents.  Small  fawn's  mouth  lifting  up- 
wards. Narrow  nostrils  slanting  upwards.  Two  lobes  of 
white  forehead.     Half-m^oons  of  parted,  brushed-back  hair. 

He  smiled:  a  blunt  V  opening  suddenly  on  white  teeth, 
black  eyes  fluttering.  He  laughed:  all  his  features  made 
sudden,  upward  movements  like  raised  wings. 

The  Acroyds.  Plump  girls  with  pink,  blown  cheeks  and 
sulky  mouths.  You  thought  of  sullen,  milk-fed  babies,  of 
trumpeting  cherubs  disgusted  with  their  trumpets.  They 
were  showing  their  racquets  to  Harry  Craven,  bending  their 
heads.  You  could  see  the  backs  of  their  privet-white  necks, 
fat,  with  no  groove  in  the  nape,  where  their  hair  curled  in 
springy  wires,  Minna's  dark,  Sophy's  golden.  They  turned 
their  backs  when  you  spoke  and  pretended  not  to  hear  you. 

She  thought  she  would  like  Maurice  to  know  that  Harry 


MATURITY  217 

Craven  and  she  had  beaten  Minna  Ackroyd  and  Norman 
Waugh.    A  love  set. 

Afterwards  —  Harry  Craven  playing  hide-and-seek  in  the 
dark.  The  tennis  net,  coiled  like  a  grey  snake  on  the  black 
lawn.  "  Let's  hide  together."  Harry  Craven,  hiding, 
crouching  beside  you  under  the  currant  bushes.  The 
scramble  together  up  the  water-butt  and  along  the  scullery 
roof.    The  last  rush  across  the  lawn. 

"  I  say,  you  run  like  the  wind." 

He  took  your  hand.  You  ran  faster  and  faster.  You 
stood  together,  under  the  ash  tree,  panting,  and  laughing, 
safe.    He  still  held  your  hand. 

Funny  that  you  should  remember  it  when  you  hadn't 
noticed  it  at  the  time.  Hands  were  funny  things.  His 
hand  had  felt  like  Mark's  hand,  or  Roddy's.  You  didn't 
think  of  it  as  belonging  to  him.  It  made  you  want  to  have 
Mark  and  Roddy  back  again.     To  play  with  them. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  wouldn't  be  kind  to  tell  Maurice 
about  the  tennis  party.  He  couldn't  have  played  like  that. 
He  couldn't  have  scrambled  up  the  water-butt  and  run  with 
you  along  the  scullery  roof. 

"My  dearest  Maurice:  Nothing  has  happened  since  you 
left,  except  that  there  was  a  tennis  party  at  the  Vicarage 
yesterday.  You  know  what  tennis  parties  are  like.  You'll 
be  shocked  to  hear  that  I  wore  my  old  black  jersey  —  the 
one  you  hated  so  —  " 

IX 

"  '  Mein  Kind,  wir  waren  Kinder.'  " 

She  shut  her  eyes.  She  wanted  nothing  but  his  voice. 
His  voice  was  alive.  It  remembered.  It  hadn't  grown  old 
and  tired.  "  My  child,  we  once  were  children,  two  children 
happy  and  small;  we  crept  in  the  little  hen-house  and  hid 
ourselves  under  the  straw." 

"  Kikerikiih !  sie  glaubten 
Es  ware  Hahnen  geschrei." 

"...  It's  all  very  well,  Mary,  I  can't  go  on  reading  Heine 
to  you  for  ever.    And  —  apresf  " 


218  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

He  had  taken  her  on  his  knees.  That  happened  some- 
times. She  kept  one  foot  on  the  floor  so  as  not  to  press  on 
him  with  her  whole  weight.  And  she  played  with  his  watch 
chain.  She  liked  to  touch  the  things  he  wore.  It  made  her 
feel  that  she  cared  for  him ;  it  staved  off  the  creeping,  sicken- 
ing fear  that  came  when  their  hands  and  faces  touched. 

"  Do  you  know,"  he  said,  "  what  it  will  be  like  —  after- 
wards? " 

She  began,  slowly,  to  count  the  buttons  of  his  waistcoat. 

"  Have  you  ever  tried  to  think  what  it  will  be  like?  " 

"  Yes." 

Last  night,  lying  awake  in  the  dark,  she  had  tried  to 
think.  She  had  thought  of  shoulders  heaving  over  her,  of 
arms  holding  her,  of  a  face  looking  into  hers,  a  honey-white, 
beardless  face,  blue  eyes,  black  eyebrows  drawn  close  down 
on  to  the  blue.     Jimmy's  face,  not  Maurice  Jourdain's. 

That  was  in  September.  October  passed.  She  began  to 
wonder  when  he  would  come  again. 

He  came  on  the  last  day  of  November. 


"  Maurice,  you're  keeping  something  from  me.  Some- 
thing's happened.     Something's  made  you  unhappy." 

"  Yes.     Something's  made  me  unhappy." 

The  Garthdale  road.  Before  them^  on  the  rise,  the  white 
highway  showed  like  a  sickle  curving  mto  the  moor.  At  the 
horn  of  the  sickle  a  tall  ash  tree  in  the  wall  of  the  Aldersons' 
farm.    Where  the  road  dipped  they  turned. 

He  slouched  slowly,  his  head  hung  forward,  loosening  the 
fold  of  flesh  about  his  jaw.  His  eyes  blinked  in  the  soft 
November  sunshine.  His  eyelids  were  tight  as  though  they 
had  been  tied  with  string. 

"  Supposing  I  asked  you  to  release  me  from  our  engage- 
ment? " 

"  For  always?  " 

"  Perhaps  for  always.  Perhaps  only  for  a  short  time. 
Till  I've  settled  something.  Till  I've  found  out  something 
I  want  to  know.    Would  you,  Mary?  " 

"  Of  course  I  would.     Like  a  shot." 


MATURITY  219 

"  And  supposing  —  I  never  settled  it?  " 

"  That  would  be  all  right.  I  can  go  on  being  engaged  to 
you;  but  you  needn't  be  engaged  to  me." 

"  You  dear  little  thing.  .  .  .  I'm  afraid,  I'm  afraid  that 
wouldn't  do." 

"  It  would  do  beautifully.  Unless  you're  really  keeping 
something  back  from  me." 

"  I  am  keeping  something  back  from  you.  .  .  .  I've  no 
right  to  worry  you  with  my  unpleasant  affairs.  I  was 
fairly  well  off  when  I  asked  you  to  marry  me,  but,  the  fact 
is,  it  looks  as  if  my  business  was  going  to  bits.  I  may  be 
able  to  pull  it  together  again.     I  may  not  —  " 

"  Is  that  all?  I'm  glad  you've  told  me.'  If  you'd  told  me 
before  it  would  have  saved  a  lot  of  bother." 

"  What  sort  of  bother?  " 

"  Well,  you  see,  I  wasn't  quite  sure  whether  I  really  wanted 
to  marry  you  —  just  yet.  Sometimes  I  thought  I  did,  some- 
times I  thought  I  didn't.     And  now  I  know  I  do." 

"  That's  it.  I  may  not  be  in  a  position  to  marry  you.  I 
can't  ask  you  to  share  my  poverty." 

"  I  shan't  mind  that.     I'm  used  to  it." 

"  I  may  not  be  able  to  keep  a  wife  at  all." 

"  Of  course  you  will.  You're  keeping  a  housekeeper  now. 
And  a  cook  and  a  housemaid." 

"  I  may  have  to  send  two  of  them  away." 

"  Send  them  all  away.  I'll  work  for  you  all  my  life.  I 
shall  never  want  to  do  anything  else.  It's  what  I  always 
wanted.  When  I  was  a  child  I  used  to  imagine  myself 
doing  it  for  you.     It  was  a  sort  of  game  I  played." 

"  It's  a  sort  of  game  you're  playing  now,  my  poor  Mary. 
.  .  .  No.    No.    It  won't  do." 

"What  do  you  think  I'm  made  of?  No  woman  who 
cared  for  a  man  could  give  him  up  for  a  thing  like  that." 

"  There  are  other  things.  Complications.  ...  I  think  I'd 
better  write  to  your  mother.     Or  your  brother." 

"  Write  to  them  —  write  to  them.  They  won't  care  a  rap 
about  your  business.     We're  not  like  that,  Maurice," 


220  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 


XI 

"  You'd  better  let  me  see  what  he  says,  Mamma." 

Her  mother  had  called  to  her  to  come  into  the  study.  She 
had  Maurice  Jourdain's  letter  in  her  hand.  She  looked  sad 
and  at  the  same  time  happy. 

"  My  darling,  he  doesn't  want  you  to  see  it." 

"Is^it  as  bad  as  all  that?" 

"  Yes.  If  I'd  had  my  way  you  should  never  have  had 
anything  to  do  with  him.  I'cl  have  forbidden  him  the  house 
if  your  Uncle  Victor  hadn't  said  that  was  the  way  to  make 
you  mad  about  him.  He  seemed  to  think  that  seeing  him 
would  cure  you.     And  so  it  ought  to  have  done.  .  .  . 

"  He  says  you  know  he  wants  to  break  off  the  engagement, 
but  he  doesn't  think  he  has  made  you  understand  why." 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  did.     It's  because  of  his  business." 

"  He  doesn't  say  a  word  about  his  business.  I'm  to 
break  it  to  you  that  he  doesn't  care  for  you  as  he  thought 
he  cared.  As  if  he  wasn't  old  enough  to  know  what  he 
wanted.  He  might  have  made  up  his  mind  before  he  drove 
your  father  into  his  grave." 

"  Tell  me  what  he  says." 

"  He  just  says  that.  He  says  he's  in  an  awful  position, 
and  whatever  he  does  he  must  behave  dishonourably.  .  .  . 
I  admit  he's  sorry  enough.  And  he's  doing  the  only  hon- 
ourable thing." 

"  He  would  do  that." 

She  fixed  her  mind  on  his  honour.  You  could  love  that. 
You  could  love  that  always. 

"  He  says  he  asked  you  to  release  him.     Did  he?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Then  why  on  earth  didn't  you?  " 

"  I  did.     But  I  couldn't  release  myself." 

"  But  that's  what  you  ought  to  have  done.  Instead  of 
leaving  him  to  do  it." 

"  Oh,  no.  That  would  have  been  dishonourable  to  my- 
self." 

"You'd  rather  be  jilted?" 

"  Much  rather.  It's  more  honourable  to  be  jilted  than  to 
jilt." 


MATURITY  221 

"  That's  not  the  world's  idea  of  honour." 
"  It's  my  idea  of  it.  .  .  .    And,  after  all,  he  was  Maurice 
Jourdain." 


XII 

The  pain  hung  on  to  the  left  side  of  her  head,  clawing. 
When  she  left  off  reading  she  could  feel  it  beat  like  a 
hammer,  driving  in  a  warm  nail. 

Aunt  Lavvy  sat  on  the  parrot  chair,  with  her  feet  on  the 
fender.  Her  fingers  had  left  off  embroidering  brown  birds 
on  drab  linen. 

In  the  dying  light  of  the  room  things  showed  fuzzy, 
headachy  outlines.     It  made  you  feel  sick  to  look  at  them. 

Mamma  had  left  her  alone  with  Aunt  Lavvy. 

"  I  suppose  you  tliink  that  nobody  was  ever  so  unhappy 
as  you  are,"  Aunt  Lavvy  said. 

"  I  hope  nobody  is.     I  hope  nobody  ever  will  be." 

"  Should  you  say  /  was  unhappy?  " 

"  You  don't  look  it.     I  hope  you're  not." 

"  Thirty-three  years  ago  I  was  miserable,  because  I 
couldn't  have  my  own  way.     I  couldn't  marry  the  man  I 

poppQ    TOT* 

"  Oh  —  that.    Why  didn't  you?  " 

"  My  mother  and  your  father  and  your  Uncle  Victor 
wouldn't  let  me." 

"  I  suppose  he  was  a  Unitarian?  " 

"  Yes.  He  was  a  Unitarian.  But  whatever  he'd  been  I 
couldn't  have  married  him.  I  couldn't  do  anything  I  liked. 
I  couldn't  go  where  I  liked  or  stay  where  I  liked.  I  wanted 
to  be  a  teacher,  but  I  had  to  give  it  up." 

''  Whyf  " 

"  Because  your  Uncle  Victor  and  I  had  to  look  after  your 
Aunt  Charlotte." 

"  You  could  have  got  somebody  else  to  look  after  Aunt 
Charlotte.     Somebody  else  has  to  look  after  her  now." 

"  Your  Grandmamma  made  us  promise  never  to  send  her 
away  as  long  as  it  was  possible  to  keep  her.  That's  why 
your  Uncle  Victor  never  married." 

"  And  all  the  time  Aunt  Charlotte  would  have  been  better 


222  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

and  happier  with  Dr.  Draper.  Aunt  Lavvy  —  it's  too 
horrible." 

"  It  wasn't  as  bad  as  you  think.  Your  Uncle  Victor 
couldn't  have  married  in  any  case." 

"  Didn't  he  love  anybody?  " 

"  Yes,  Mary;  he  loved  your  mother." 

"  I  see.     And  she  didn't  love  him." 

"  He  wouldn't  have  married  her  if  she  had  loved  him.  He 
was  afraid." 

''  Afraid?  " 

"  Afraid  of  going  like  your  Aunt  Charlotte.  Afraid  of 
what  he  might  hand  on  to  his  children." 

"  Papa  wasn't  afraid.  He  grabbed.  It  was  poor  little 
Victor  and  you  who  got  nothing." 

"  Victor  has  got  a  great  deal." 

"  And  you  —  you?  " 

"  I've  got  all  I  want.  I've  got  all  there  is.  When  every- 
thing's taken  away,  then  God's  there." 

"  If  he's  there,  he's  there  anyhow." 

''  Until  everything's  taken  away  there  isn't  room  to  see 
that  he's  there." 

When  Catty  came  in  with  the  lamp  Aunt  Lavvy  went 
out  quickly. 

Mary  got  up  and  stretched  herself.  The  pain  had  left 
off  hammering.     She  could  think. 

Aunt  Lavvy  —  to  live  like  that  for  thirty-three  years  and 
to  be  happy  at  the  end.  She  wondered  what  happiness  there 
could  be  in  that  dull  surrender  and  acquiescence,  that  cold, 
meek  love  of  God. 

"  Kikerikiih !  sie  glaubten 
Es  ware  Hahnen  geschrei." 


XXIV 


Everybody  in  the  village  knew  you  had  been  jilted. 
Mrs.  Waugh  and  Miss  Frewin  knew  it,  and  Mr.  Horn,  the 
grocer,  and  Mr.  Oldshaw  at  the  bank.    And  Mr.  Belk,  the 


MATURITY  223 

Justice  of  the  Peace  —  little  pink  and  flaxen  gentleman, 
carrying  himself  with  an  air  of  pompous  levity  —  eyes  slew- 
ing round  as  you  passed;  and  Mrs.  Bclk  —  hard,  tight 
rotundity,  little  iron-grey  eyes  twinkling  busily  in  a  snub 
face,  putty-skinned  with  a  bilious  gleam;  curious  eyes,  busy 
eyes  saying,  ''  I'd  like  to  know  what  she  did  to  be  jilted." 

Minna  and  Sophy  Acroyd,  with  their  blown  faces  and 
small,  disgusted  mouths:  you  could  see  them  look  at  each 
other;  they  were  saying,  "  Here's  that  awful  girl  again." 
They  were  glad  you  were  jilted. 

Mr.  Spencer  Rollitt  looked  at  you  with  his  hard,  blue 
eyes.  His  mouth  closed  tight  with  a  snap  when  he  saw 
you  coming.  He  had  disapproved  of  you  ever  since  you 
played  hide-and-seek  in  his  garden  with  his  nephew.  He 
thought  it  served  you  right  to  be  jilted. 

And  there  was  Dr.  Charles's  kind  look  under  his  savage, 
shaggy  eyebrows,  and  Miss  Kendal's  squeeze  of  your  hand 
when  you  left  her,  and  the  sudden  start  in  Dorsy  Heron's 
black  Hare's  eyes.  They  were  sorry  for  you  because  you 
had  been  jilted. 

Miss  Louisa  Wright  was  sorry  for  you.  She  would  ask 
you  to  tea  in  her  little  green-dark  drawing-room;  she  lived 
in  the  ivy  house  next  door  to  Mrs.  Waugh ;  the  piano  would 
be  open,  the  yellow  keys  shining;  from  the  white  title  page 
enormous  black  letters  would  call  to  you  across  the  room: 
"  Cleansing  Fires."  That  was  the  song  she  sang  w^hen  she 
was  thinking  about  Dr.  Charles.  First  you  played  for  her 
the  Moonlight  Sonata,  and  then  she  sang  for  you  with  a 
feverish  exaltation: 

"  For  as  gold  is  refined  in  the  fi-yer, 
So  a  heart  is  tried  by  pain." 

She  sang  it  to  comfort  you. 

Her  head  quivered  slightly  as  she  shook  the  notes  out 
of  her  throat  in  ecstasy. 

She  was  sorry  for  you;  but  she  was  like  Aunt  Lawy; 
she  thought  it  was  a  good  thing  to  be  jilted;  for  then  you 
were  purified;  your  soul  was  set  free;  it  went  up,  writhing 
and  aspiring,  in  a  white  flame  to  God. 


224  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


II 

"  Mary,  why  are  you  always  admiring  yourself  in  the 
glass?  " 

"  I'm  not  admiring  myself.  I  only  wanted  to  see  if  I 
was  better-looking  than  last  time." 

"  Why  are  you  worrying  about  it?    You  never  used  to." 

"  Because  I  used  to  think  I  was  pretty." 

Her  mother  smiled.  "  You  were  pretty."  And  took 
back  her  smile.  "  You'd  be  pretty  always  if  you  were 
happy,  and  you'd  be  happy  if  you  were  good.  There's  no 
happiness  for  any  of  us  without  Christ." 

She  ignored  the  dexterous  application. 

"  Do  you  mean  I'm  not,  then,  really,  so  very  ugly?  " 

"  Nobody  said  you  were  ugly." 

"  Maurice  Jourdain  did." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you're  still  thinking  of  that 
man?  " 

"  Not  thinking  exactly.  Only  wondering.  Wondering 
what  it  was  he  hated  so." 

"  You  wouldn't  wonder  if  you  knew  the  sort  of  man  he 
is.    A  man  who  could  threaten  you  with  his  infidelity." 

"  He  never  threatened  me." 

"  I  suppose  it  was  me  he  threatened,  then." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"  He  said  that  if  his  wife  didn't  take  care  to  please  him 
there  were  other  women  who  would." 

"  He  ought  to  have  said  that  to  me.  It  was  horrible  of 
him  to  say  it  to  you." 

She  didn't  know  why  she  felt  that  it  was  horrible. 

"  1  can  tell  you  one  thing,"  said  her  mother,  as  if  she  had 
not  told  her  anything.  "  It  was  those  books  you  read.  That 
everlasting  philosophy.  He  said  it  was  answerable  for  the 
whole  thing." 

"  Then  it  was  the  —  the  whole  thing  he  hated." 

"  I   suppose   so,"  her  mother  said,  dismissing   a   matter 
of  small  interest.    "You'd  better  change  that  skirt  if  you're 
going  with  me  to  Mrs.  Waugh's." 
■  "  Do  you  mind  if  I  go  for  a  walk  instead?  " 

"  Not  if  it  makes  you  any  more  contented." 


MATURITY  225 

"  It  might.    Are  you  sure  you  don't  mind?  " 
"  Oh,  go  along  with  you!  " 

Her  mother  was  pleased.  She  was  always  pleased  when 
she  scored  a  point  against  philosophy. 

Ill 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Belk  were  coming  along  High  Row.  She 
avoided  them  by  turning  down  the  narrow  passage  into 
Mr.  Horn's  yard  and  the  Back  Lane.  From  the  Back  Lane 
you  could  get  up  through  the  fields  to  the  school-house  lane 
without  seeing  people. 

She  hated  seeing  them.  They  all  thought  the  same 
thing:  that  you  wanted  Maurice  Jourdain  and  that  you 
were  unhappy  because  you  hadn't  got  him.  They  thought 
it  was  awful  of  you.  Mamma  thought  it  was  awful,  like  — 
like  Aunt  Charlotte  wanting  to  marry  the  piano-tuner,  or 
poor  Jenny  wanting  to  marry  Mr.  Spall. 

Maurice  Jourdain  knew  better  than  that.  He  knew  you 
didn't  want  to  marry  him  any  more  than  he  wanted  to 
marry  you.  He  nagged  at  you  about  your  hair,  about  phi- 
losophy —  she  could  hear  his  voice  nag-nagging  now  as  she 
went  up  the  lane  —  he  could  nag  worse  than  a  woman,  but 
he  knew.  She  knew.  As  far  as  she  could  see  through  the 
working  of  his  dark  mind,  first  he  had  cared  for  her,  cared 
violently.    Then  he  had  not  cared. 

That  would  be  because  he  cared  for  some  other  woman. 
There  were  two  of  them.  The  girl  and  the  married  woman. 
She  felt  no  jealousy  and  no  interest  in  them  beyond  wonder- 
ing which  of  them  it  would  be  and  what  they  would  be  like. 
There  had  been  two  Mary  Oliviers;  long-haired  —  short- 
haired,  and  she  had  been  jealous  of  the  long-haired  one. 
Jealous  of  herself. 

There  had  been  two  Maurice  Jourdains,  the  one  who  said, 
"  I'll  understand.  I'll  never  lose  my  temper  ";  the  one  with 
the  crystal  mind,  shining  and  flashing,  the  mind  like  a  big 
room  filled  from  end  to  end  with  light.  But  he  had  never 
existed. 

Maurice  Jourdain  was  only  a  name.  A  name  for  intel- 
lectual  beauty.     You   could   love   that.     Love   was   "  the 


226  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

cle-eansing  ^-yer!  "  There  was  the  love  of  the  body  and 
the  love  of  the  soul.  Perhaps  she  had  loved  Maurice  Jour- 
dain  with  her  soul  and  not  with  her  body.  No.  She  had 
not  loved  him  with  her  soul,  either.  Body  and  soul;  soul 
and  body.  Spinoza  said  they  were  two  aspects  of  the  same 
thing.  What  thing?  Perhaps  it  was  silly  to  ask  what 
thing;  it  would  be  just  body  and  soul.  Somebody  talked 
about  a  soul  dragging  a  corpse.  Her  body  wasn't  a  corpse; 
it  was  strong  and  active;  it  could  play  games  and  jump;  it 
could  pick  Dan  up  and  carry  him  round  the  table;  it  could 
run  a  mile  straight  on  end.  It  could  excite  itself  with  its 
own  activity  and  strength.  It  dragged  a  corpse-like  soul, 
dull  and  heavy;  a  soul  that  would  never  be  excited  again, 
never  lift  itself  up  again  in  any  ecstasy. 

If  only  he  had  let  her  alone.  If  only  she  could  go  back 
to  her  real  life.  But  she  couldn't.  She  couldn't  feel  any 
more  her  sudden,  secret  happiness.  Maurice  Jourdain  had 
driven  it  away.  It  had  nothing  to  do  with  Maurice  Jour- 
dain.   He  ought  not  to  have  been  able  to  take  it  from  you. 

She  might  go  up  to  Karva  Hill  to  look  for  it;  but  it 
would  not  be  there.  She  couldn't  even  remember  what  it 
had  been  like. 

IV 

New  Year's  night.  She  was  lying  awake  in  her  white 
cell. 

She  hated  Maurice  Jourdain.  His  wearily  searching 
eyes  made  her  restless.  His  man's  voice  made  her  restless 
with  its  questions.  "  Do  you  know  what  it  will  be  like  — 
afterwards?  "    "  Do  you  really  want  me?  " 

She  didn't  want  him.  But  she  wanted  Somebody.  Some- 
body. Somebody.  He  had  left  her  with  this  ungovernable 
want. 

Somebody.  If  you  lay  very  still  and  shut  your  eyes  he 
would  come  to  you.  You  would  see  him.  You  knew  what 
he  was  like.  He  had  Jimmy's  body  and  Jimmy's  face,  and 
Mark's  ways.  He  had  the  soul  of  Shelley  and  the  mind 
of  Spinoza  and  Immanuel  Kant. 

They  talked  to  each  other.  Her  reverie  ran  first  into 
long,  fascinating  conversations  about  Space  and  Time  and 


MATURITY  227 

the  Thing-in-itself,  and  the  Transcendental  Ego.  He  could 
tell  you  whether  you  were  right  or  wrong;  whether  Sub- 
stance and  the  Thing-in-itself  were  the  same  thing  or 
different. 

"Die  —  If  thou  wouldst  be  with  that  which  thou  dost 
seek."  He  wrote  that.  He  wrote  all  Shelley's  poems  except 
the  bad  ones.  He  wrote  Swinburne's  Atalanta  in  Calydon. 
He  could  understand  your  wanting  to  know  what  the  Thing- 
in-itself  was.  If  by  dying  to-morrow,  to-night,  this  minute, 
you  could  know  what  it  was,  you  would  be  glad  to  die. 
Wouldn't  you? 

The  world  was  built  up  in  Space  and  Time.  Time  and 
Space  were  forms  of  thought  —  ways  of  thinking.  If  there 
was  thinking  there  would  be  a  thinker.  Supposing  —  sup- 
posing the  Transcendental  Ego  was  the  Thing-in-itself? 

That  was  his  idea.  She  was  content  to  let  him  have  the 
best  ones.  You  could  keep  him  going  for  quite  a  long  time 
that  way  before  you  got  tired. 

The  nicest  way  of  all,  though,  was  not  to  be  yourself, 
but  to  be  him;  to  live  his  exciting,  adventurous,  dangerous 
life.  Then  you  could  raise  an  army  and  free  Ireland  from 
the  English,  and  Armenia  from  the  Turks.  You  could  go 
away  to  beautiful  golden  cities,  melting  in  sunshine.  You 
could  sail  in  the  China  Sea;  you  could  get  into  Central 
Africa  among  savage  people  with  queer,  bloody  gods.  You 
could  find  out  all  sorts  of  things. 

You  were  he,  and  at  the  same  time  you  were  yourself, 
going  about  with  him.  You  loved  him  with  a  passionate, 
self-immolating  love.  There  wasn't  room  for  both  of  you 
on  the  raft,  you  sat  cramped  up,  huddled  together.  Not 
enough  hard  tack.  While  he  was  sleeping  you  slipped  off. 
A  shark  got  you.  It  had  a  face  like  Dr.  Charles.  The 
lunatic  was  running  after  him  like  mad,  with  a  revolver. 
You  ran  like  mad.  Morfe  Bridge.  When  he  raised  his 
arm  you  jerked  it  up  and  the  revolver  went  off  into  the  air. 
The  fire  was  between  his  bed  and  the  door.  It  curled  and 
broke  along  the  floor  like  surf.  You  waded  through  it. 
You  picked  him  up  and  carried  him  out  as  Sister  Dora 
carried  the  corpses  with  the  small-pox.  A  screw  loose  some- 
where.   A  tap  turned  on.    Your  mind  dribbled  imbecilities. 


228  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

She  kicked.  "  I  won't  think,  I  won't  think  about  it 
an}-  more!  " 

Restlessness.  It  ached.  It  gnawed,  stopping  a  minute, 
beginning  again,  only  to  be  appeased  by  reverie,  by  the 
running  tap. 

Restlessness.    That  was  desire.    It  must  be. 

Desire:  Ifiepos.  "E/aw?.  There  was  the  chorus  in  the 
Antigone: 

"  "Epws  dvlKare  fxdxo-v, 

'Eyows  OS  iv  KTififxaffi.  TrfTrrets." 

There  was  Swinburne: 

"...  swift  and  subtle  and  blind  as  a  flame  of  fire, 
Before  thee  the  laughter,  behind  thee  the  tears  of  desire." 

There  was  the  song  Minna  Acroyd  sang  at  the  Sutcliffes' 
party.  "  Sigh-ing  and  sad  for  des-ire  of  the  bee."  How 
could  anybody  sing  such  a  silly  song? 

Through  the  wide  open  window  she  could  smell  the  frost; 
she  could  hear  it  tingle.  She  put  up  her  mouth  above  the 
bedclothes  and  drank  down  the  clear,  cold  air.  She  thought 
with  pleasure  of  the  ice  in  her  bath  in  the  morning.  It 
would  break  under  her  feet,  splintering  and  tinkling  like 
glass.    If  you  kept  on  thinking  about  it  you  would  sleep. 


Passion  Week. 

Her  mother  was  reading  the  Lessons  for  the  Day.  Mary 
waited  till  she  had  finished. 

"  Mamma  —  what  was  the  matter  with  Aunt  Charlotte?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Except  that  she  was  always 
thinking  about  getting  married.  Whatever  put  Aunt  Char- 
lotte in  your  head?  " 

Her  mother  looked  up  from  the  Prayer  Book  as  she 
closed  it.  Sweet  and  pretty;  sweet  and  pretty;  young 
almost,  as  she  used  to  look,  and  tranquil. 

"  It's  my  belief,"  she  said,  "  there  wouldn't  have  been 
anything  the  matter  with  her  if  your  Grandmamma  Olivier 
hadn't  spoiled  her.    Charlotte  was  as  vain  as  a  little  pea- 


MATURITY  229 

cock,  and  your  Grandmamma  was  always  petting  and  prais- 
ing her  and  letting  her  have  her  own  way." 

"  If  she'd  had  her  own  way  she'd  have  been  married,  and 
then  perhaps  she  wouldn't  have  gone  mad." 

**  She  might  have  gone  madder,"  said  her  mother.  "  It 
was  a  good  tiling  for  you,  my  dear,  you  didn't  get  your 
way.  I'd  rather  have  seen  you  in  your  cofl&n  than  married 
to  Maurice  Jourdain." 

"  Whoever  it  had  been,  you'd  have  said  that." 

''  Perhaps  I  should.  I  don't  want  my  only  daughter  to 
go  away  and  leave  me.  It  would  be  different  if  there  were 
six  or  seven  of  you." 

Her  mother's  complacence  and  tranquillity  annoyed  her. 
She  hated  her  mother.  She  adored  her  and  hated  her. 
Mamma  had  married  for  her  own  pleasure,  for  her  passion. 
She  had  brought  you  into  the  world,  without  asking  your 
leave,  for  her  own  pleasure.  She  had  brought  you  into  the 
world  to  be  unhappy.  She  had  planned  for  you  to  do  the 
things  that  she  did.  She  cared  for  you  only  as  long  as  you 
were  doing  them.  When  you  left  off  and  did  other  things 
she  left  off  caring. 

"  I  shall  never  go  away  and  leave  you,"  she  said. 

She  hated  her  mother  and  she  adored  her. 

An  hour  later,  when  she  found  her  in  the  garden  kneeling 
by  the  violet  bed,  weeding  it,  she  knelt  down  beside  her,  and 
weeded  too. 


VI 

April,  May,  June. 

One  afternoon  before  post-time  her  mother  called  her 
into  the  study  to  show  her  Mrs.  Draper's  letter. 

Mrs.  Draper  wrote  about  Dora's  engagement  and  Effie's 
wedding.  Dora  was  engaged  to  Hubert  Manisty  who 
would  have  Vinings.  EflBe  had  broken  off  her  engagement 
to  young  Tom  Manisty;  she  was  married  last  week  to  Mr. 
Stuart-Gore,  the  banker.  Mrs.  Draper  thought  Effie  had 
been  very  wise  to  give  up  young  Manisty  for  Mr.  Stuart- 
Gore.  She  wrote  in  a  postscript:  "Maurice  Jourdain  has 
just  called  to  ask  if  I  have  any  news  of  Mary.    I  think  he 


230  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

would  like  to  know  that  that  wretched  affair  has  not  made 
her  unhappy." 

Mamma  was  smiling  in  a  nervous  way.  "  What  am  I  to 
say  to  Mrs.  Draper?  " 

"  Tell  her  that  Mr.  Jourdain  was  right  and  that  I  am  not 
at  all  unhapp3\" 

She  was  glad  to  take  the  letter  to  the  post  and  set  his 
mind  at  rest. 

It  was  in  June  last  year  that  Maurice  Jourdain  had  come 
to  her:  June  the  twenty-fourth.  To-day  was  the  twenty- 
fifth.     He  must  have  remembered. 

The  hayfields  shone,  ready  for  mowing.  Under  the  wind 
the  shimmering  hay  grass  moved  like  waves  of  hot  air,  up 
and  up  the  hill. 

She  slipped  through  the  gap  by  Morfe  Bridge  and  went 
up  the  fields  to  the  road  on  Greffington  Edge.  She  lay 
down  among  the  bracken  in  the  place  where  Roddy  and  she 
had  sat  two  years  ago  when  they  had  met  Mr,  Sutcliffe 
coming  down  the  road. 

The  bracken  hid  her.  It  made  a  green  sunshade  above 
her  head.    She  shut  her  eyes. 

"  Kikerikiih !  sie  glaubten 
Es  ware  Hahnen  geschrei." 

That  was  all  nonsense.  Maurice  Jourdain  would  never 
have  crept  in  the  little  hen-house  and  hidden  himself  under 
the  straw.  He  would  never  have  crowed  like  a  cock.  Mark 
and  Roddy  would.  And  Harry  Craven  and  Jimmy.  Jimmy 
would  certainly  have  hidden  himself  under  the  straw. 

Supposing  Jimmy  had  had  a  crystal  mind.  Shining  and 
flashing.  Supposing  he  had  never  done  that  awful  thing 
they  said  he  did.  Supposing  he  had  had  Mark's  ways,  had 
been  noble  and  honourable  like  Mark  — 

The  interminable  reverie  began.  He  was  there  beside 
her  in  the  bracken.  She  didn't  know  what  his  name  would 
be.  It  couldn't  be  Jimmy  or  Harry  or  any  of  those  names. 
Not  Mark.    Mark's  name  was  sacred. 

Cecil,  perhaps. 

Why  Cecil?  Cecil? — You  ape!  You  drivelling,  drib- 
bling idiot!  That  was  the  sort  of  thing  Aunt  Charlotte 
would  have  thought  of. 


MATURITY  231 

She  got  up  with  a  jump  and  stretched  herself.  She  would 
have  to  run  if  she  was  to  be  home  in  time  for  tea. 

From  the  top  hayfield  she  could  see  the  Sutcliffes'  tennis 
court;  an  emerald  green  space  set  in  thick  grey  walls. 
She  drew  her  left  hand  slowly  down  her  right  forearm. 
The  muscle  was  hardening  and  thickening. 

Mamma  didn't  like  it  when  you  went  by  yourself  to  play 
singles  with  Mr.  Sutcliffe.  But  if  Mr.  Sutcliffe  asked  you 
you  would  simply  have  to  go.  You  would  have  to  play  a 
great  many  singles  against  Mr.  Sutcliffe  if  you  were  to  be 
in  good  form  next  year  when  Mark  came  home. 

VII 

She  was  always  going  to  the  Sutcliffes'  now.  Her  mother 
shook  her  head  when  she  saw  her  in  her  short  white  skirt 
and  white  jersey,  slashing  at  nothing  with  her  racquet, 
ready.  Mamma  didn't  like  the  Sutcliffes.  She  said  they 
hadn't  been  nice  to  poor  Papa.  They  had  never  asked  him 
again.    You  could  see  she  thought  you  a  beast  to  like  them. 

"  But,  Mamma  darling,  I  can't  help  liking  them." 

And  Mamma  would  look  disgusted  and  go  back  to  her 
pansy  bed  and  dig  her  trowel  in  with  little  savage  thrusts, 
and  say  she  supposed  you  would  always  have  your  own  way. 

You  would  go  down  to  Greffington  Hall  and  find  Mr. 
Sutcliffe  sitting  under  the  beech  tree  on  the  lawn,  in  white 
flannels,  looking  rather  tired  and  bored.  And  Mrs.  Sut- 
cliffe, a  long-faced,  delicate-nosed  Beauty  of  Victorian 
Albums,  growing  stout,  wearing  full  skirts  and  white  cash- 
mere shawls  and  wide  mushroomy  hats  when  nobody  else 
did.  She  had  an  air  of  doing  it  on  purpose,  to  be  different, 
like  royalty.  She  would  take  your  hand  and  press  it  gently 
and  smile  her  downward,  dragging  smile,  and  she  would 
say,  "  How  is  your  mother?  Does  she  mind  the  hot 
weather?  She  must  come  and  see  me  when  it's  cooler." 
That  was  the  nice  way  she  had,  so  that  you  mightn't  think 
it  was  Mamma's  fault,  or  Papa's,  if  they  didn't  see  each 
other  often.  And  she  would  look  down  at  her  shawl  and 
gather  it  about  her,  as  if  in  spirit  she  had  got  up  and  gone 
away. 


232  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

And  Mr.  Sut cliff e  would  be  standing  in  front  of  you, 
looking  suddenly  years  younger,  with  his  eyes  shining  and 
clean  as  though  he  had  just  washed  them. 

And  after  tea  you  would  play  singles  furiously.  For  two 
hours  you  would  try  to  beat  him.  When  you  jumped  the 
net  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  would  wave  her  hand  and  nod  to  you  and 
smile.    You  had  done  something  that  pleased  her. 

To-day,  when  it  was  all  over,  Mr.  Sutcliffe  took  her  back 
into  the  house,  and  there  on  the  hall  table  were  the  books 
he  had  got  for  her  from  the  London  Library:  The  Heine, 
the  Goethe's  Faust,  the  Sappho,  the  Darwin's  Origin  of 
Species,  the  Schopenhauer,  Die  Welt  als  Wille  und  Vor- 
stellung. 

"  Five?    All  at  once?  " 

"  I  get  fifteen.  As  long  as  we're  here  you  shall  have  your 
five." 

He  walked  home  with  her,  carrying  the  books.  Five. 
Five.  And  when  you  had  finished  them  there  would  be  five 
more.    It  was  unbelievable. 

"  Why  are  you  so  nice  to  me?    Why?      Why?  " 

"  I  think  it  must  be  because  I  like  you,  Mary." 

Utterly  unbelievable. 

"  Do  —  you  —  really  —  like  me?  " 

"  I  liked  you  the  first  day  I  saw  you.  With  your  brother. 
On  Greffington  Edge." 

"  I  wonder  why."  She  wondered  what  he  was  thinking, 
what,  deep  down  inside  him,  he  was  really  thinking. 

"  Perhaps  it  was  because  you  wanted  something  I  could 
give  you.  .  .  .  Tennis.  .  .  .  You  wanted  it  so  badly. 
Everything  you  want  you  want  so  badly." 

"  And  I  never  knew  we  were  going  to  be  such  friends." 

"  No  more  did  I.  And  I  don't  know  now  how  long  it's 
going  to  last." 

"  Waiy  shouldn't  it  last?  " 

"  Because  next  year  '  Mark '  will  have  come  home  and 
you'll  have  nothing  to  say  to  me." 

"  Mark  won't  make  a  scrap  of  difference." 

"  Well  —  if  it  isn't  '  Mark '  .  .  .  You'll  grow  up,  Mary, 
and  it  won't  amuse  you  to  talk  to  me  any  more.  I  shan't 
know  you.  You'll  wear  long  skirts  and  long  hair  done  in 
the  fashion." 


MATURITY  233 

"  I  shall  always  want  to  talk  to  you.  I  shall  never  do 
up  my  hair.  I  cut  it  off  because  I  couldn't  be  bothered 
with  it.  But  I  was  sold.  I  thought  it  would  curl  all  over 
my  head,  and  it  didn't  curl." 

"It  curls  at  the  tips,"  Mr.  Sutcliffe  said.  ''I  like  it. 
Makes  you  look  like  a  jolly  boy,  instead  of  a  dreadful,  un- 
approachable young  lady.  A  little  San  Giovanni.  A  little 
San  Giovanni." 

That  was  his  trick:  caressing  his  own  words  as  if  he 
liked  them. 

She  wondered  what,  deep  down  inside  him,  he  was  really 
like. 

"  Mr.  Sutcliffe  —  if  you'd  known  a  girl  when  she  was 
only  fourteen,  and  you  liked  her  and  you  never  saw  her 
again  till  she  was  seventeen,  and  then  you  found  that  she'd 
gone  and  cut  her  hair  all  off,  would  it  give  you  an  awful 
shock?  " 

"  Depends  on  how  much  I  liked  her." 

"  If  you'd  liked  her  awfully  —  would  it  make  you  leave 
off  liking  her?  " 

"  I  think  mj'-  friendship  could  stand  the  strain." 

"  If  it  wasn't  just  friendship?  Supposing  it  was  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe?  " 

"  I  shouldn't  like  my  wife  to  cut  her  hair  off.  It  wouldn't 
be  at  all  becoming  to  her." 

"  No.    But  when  she  was  young?  " 

"  Ah  —  when  she  was  young  —  " 

"  Would  it  have  made  any  difference?  " 

"  No.    No.    It  wouldn't  have  made  any  difference  at  all." 

"  You'd  have  married  her  just  the  same?  " 

"  Just  the  same,  Mary.    Why?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing.  I  thought  you'd  be  like  that.  I  just 
wanted  to  make  sure." 

He  smiled  to  himself.  He  had  funny,  secret  thoughts 
that  vou  would  never  know. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  I  didn't  beat  you." 

"  Form  not  good  enough  yet  —  quite." 

He  promised  her  it  should  be  perfect  by  the  time  Mark 
came  home. 


234  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


VIII 

"  The  pale  pearl-purple  evening  —  "  The  words  rushed 
together.  She  couldn't  tell  whether  they  were  her  own  or 
somebody  else's. 

There  was  the  queer  shock  of  recognition  that  came  with 
your  own  real  things.  It  wasn't  remembering  though  it  felt 
like  it. 

Shelley  — "  The  pale  purple  even."  Not  pearl-purple. 
Pearl-purple  was  what  you  saw.  The  sky  to  the  east  after 
sunset  above  Greffington  Edge.  Take  out  "  pale,"  and 
"  pearl-purple  evening  "  was  your  own. 

The  poem  was  coming  by  bits  at  a  time.  She  could 
feel  the  rest  throbbing  behind  it,  an  unreleased,  impatient 
energy. 

Her  mother  looked  in  at  the  door.  "  What  are  you  doing 
it  for,  Mary?  " 

«  Oh  —  for  nothing." 

"  Then  for  pity's  sake  come  down  into  the  warm  room 
and  do  it  there.     You'll  catch  cold." 

She  hated  the  warm  room. 

The  poem  would  be  made  up  of  many  poems.  It  would 
last  a  long  time,  through  the  winter  and  on  into  the  spring. 
As  long  as  it  lasted  she  would  be  happy.  She  would  be 
free  from  the  restlessness  and  the  endless  idiotic  reverie  of 
desire. 

IX 

"  From  all  blindness  of  heart  ;  from  pride,  vain-glory  and 
hypocrisy  ;  from  envy,  hatred,  and  malice,  and  all  uncharit- 
ableness, 

"  Good  Lord,  deliver  us." 

Mary  was  kneeling  beside  her  mother  in  church. 
"  From  fornication,  and  all  other  deadly  sin — " 
Happiness,  the  happiness  that  came  from  writing  poems; 
happiness  that  other  people  couldn't  have,  that  you  couldn't 
give  to  them;  happiness  that  was  no  good  to  Mamma,  no 
good  to  anybody  but  you,  secret  and  selfish ;  that  was  your 
happiness.    It  was  deadly  sin. 


MATURITY  235 

She  felt  an  immense,  intolerable  compassion  for  every- 
body who  was  unhappy.  A  litany  of  compassion  went  on 
inside  her:  For  old  Dr.  Kendal,  sloughing  and  rotting  in 
his  chair;  for  Miss  Kendal;  for  all  women  labouring  of 
child;  for  old  Mrs.  Heron;  for  Dorsy  Heron;  for  all  pris- 
oners and  captives;  for  Miss  Louisa  Wright;  for  all  that 
were  desolate  and  oppressed;  for  Maggie's  sister,  dying  of 
cancer;  and  for  Mamma,  kneeling  there,  praying. 

Sunday  after  Sunday. 

And  she  would  work  in  the  garden  every  morning,  dig- 
ging in  leaf  mould  and  carrying  the  big  stones  for  the 
rockery;  she  would  go  to  Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  sewing  parties; 
she  would  sit  for  hours  with  Maggie's  sister,  trying  not  to 
look  as  if  she  minded  the  smell  of  the  cancer.  You  were 
no  good  unless  you  could  do  little  things  like  that.  You 
were  no  good  unless  you  could  keep  on  doing  them. 

She  tried  to  keep  on. 

Some  people  kept  on  all  day,  all  their  lives.  Still,  it 
was  not  you  so  much  as  the  world  that  was  wrong.  It 
wasn't  fair  and  right  that  Maggie's  sister  should  have 
cancer  while  you  had  nothing  the  matter  with  you.  Or 
even  that  Maggie  had  to  cook  and  scrub  while  you  made 
poems. 

Not  fair  and  right. 


"  Mamma,  what  is  it?    Why  are  you  in  the  dark?  " 

By  the  firelight  she  could  see  her  mother  sitting  with 
her  eyes  shut,  and  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap. 

"  I  can't  use  my  eyes.  I  think  there  must  be  something 
the  matter  with  them." 

"  Your  eyes?  ...  Do  they  hurt?  " 

(You  might  have  known  — you  might  have  known  that 
something  would  happen.  While  you  were  upstairs,  writ- 
ing, not  thinking  of  her.    You  might  have  known.) 

"  Something  hurts.  Just  there.  W^hen  I  try  to  read.  I 
must  be  going  blind." 

"  Are  you  sure  it  isn't  your  glasses?  " 

"  How  can  it  be  my  glasses?  They  never  hurt  me 
before." 


236  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

But  the  oculist  in  Durlingham  said  it  was  her  glasses. 
She  wasn't  going  blind.  It  wasn't  likely  that  she  ever 
would  go  blind. 

For  a  week  before  the  new  glasses  came  Mamma  sat, 
patient  and  gentle,  in  her  chair,  with  her  eyes  shut  and  her 
hands  folded  in  her  lap.  And  you  read  aloud  to  her:  the 
Bible  and  The  Times  in  the  morning,  and  Dickens  in  the 
afternoon.  And  in  the  evening  you  played  draughts  and 
Mamma  beat  you. 

Mamma  said,  "  I  shall  be  quite  sorry  when  the  new 
glasses  come." 

Mary  was  sorry  too.    They  had  been  so  happy. 

XI 

April.    Mark's  ship  had  left  Port  Said  nine  days  ago. 

Mamma  had  come  in  with  the  letter. 

"  I've  got  news  for  you.     Guess." 

"  Mark's  coming  to-day." 

"  No.  .  .  .  Mr.  Jourdain  was  married  yesterday." 

"Who  — to?" 

"  Some  girl  he  used  to  see  in  Sussex." 

(That  one.  She  was  glad  it  was  the  little  girl,  the  poor 
one.    Nice  of  Maurice  to  marry  her.) 

"  Do  you  mind,  Mary?  " 

"  No,  not  a  bit.  I  hope  they'll  be  happy.  I  want  them 
to  be  happy.  .  .  .  Now,  you  see  —  that  was  why  he  didn't 
want  to  marry  me." 

Her  mother  sat  down  on  the  bed.  There  was  something 
she  was  going  to  say. 

"  Well  —  thank  goodness  that's  the  last  of  it." 

''  Does  Mark  know?  " 

"  No,  he  does  not.  You  surely  don't  imagine  anybody 
would  tell  him  a  thing  like  that  about  his  sister?  " 

"  Like  what?  " 

"  Well  —  he  wouldn't  think  it  very  nice  of  you." 

"  You  talk  as  if  I  was  Aunt  Charlotte.  .  .  .  Do  you  think 
I'm  like  her?  " 

"  I  never  said  you  were  like  her.  ..." 

"  You  think  —  you  think  and  won't  say." 


MATURITY  237 

"  Well,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  thought  like  your  Aunt 
Charlotte  you  should  try  and  behave  a  little  more  like  other 
people.  For  pity's  sake,  do  while  Mark's  here,  or  he  won't 
like  it,  I  can  tell  you." 

"  I  don't  do  anything  Mark  wouldn't  like." 

"  You  do  very  queer  things  sometimes,  though  you  mayn't 
think  so.  .  .  .  I'm  not  the  only  one  that  notices.  If  you 
really  want  to  know,  that  was  what  Mr.  Jourdain  was  afraid 
of  —  the  queer  things  you  say  and  do.  You  told  me  your- 
self you'd  have  gone  to  him  if  he  hadn't  come  to  you." 

She  remembered.    Yes,  she  had  said  that. 

"  Did  he  know  about  Aunt  Charlotte?  " 

"  You  may  be  sure  he  did." 

Mamma  didn't  know.  She  never  would  know  what  it 
had  been  like,  that  night.  But  there  were  things  you  didn't 
know,  either. 

"What  did  Aunt  Charlotte  do?  " 

"  Nothing.  She  just  fell  in  love  with  every  man  she 
met.  If  she'd  only  seen  him  for  five  minutes  she  was  off 
after  him.  Ordering  her  trousseau  and  dressing  herself  up. 
She  was  no  more  mad  than  I  am  except  just  on  that  one 
point." 

"  Aunt  Lavvy  said  that  was  why  Uncle  Victor  never 
married.  He  was  afraid  of  something  —  something  happen- 
ing to  his  children.  What  do  you  think  he  thought  would 
happen?  " 

Her  mother's  foot  tapped  on  the  floor. 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you  what  he  thought.  And  I  don't 
know  what  there  was  to  be  afraid  of.  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
throw  your  stockings  all  about  the  room." 

Mamma  picked  up  the  stockings  and  went  away.  You 
could  see  that  she  was  annoyed.  Annoyed  with  Uncle 
Victor  for  having  been  afraid  to  marry. 

A  dreadful  thought  came  to  her.  "  Does  Mamma  really 
think  I'm  like  Aunt  Cliarlotte?  I  won't  be  like  her.  I 
won't.  ...  I'm  not.  There  was  Jimmy  and  there  was 
Maurice  Jourdain.  But  I  didn't  fall  in  love  with  the  Pro- 
parts  or  the  Manistys,  or  Norman  Waugh,  or  Harry  Craven, 
or  Dr.  Charles.  Or  Mr.  Sutcliffe.  .  .  .  She  said  I  was  as 
bad  as  Aunt  Charlotte.    Because  I  said  I'd  go  to  Maurice. 


238  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

...  I  meant,  just  to  see  him.    What  did  she  think  I  meant? 

...  Oh,  not  that.  .  .  .  Would  I  really  have  gone?     Got 

into  the  train  and  gone?    Would  I?  " 
She  would  never  know. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  Uncle  Victor  was  afraid  of." 
Wondering  what  he  had  been  afraid  of,  she  felt  afraid. 

XXV 

I 

She  waited. 

Mamma  and  Mark  had  turned  their  backs  to  her  as  they 
clung  together.  But  there  was  his  sparrow-brown  hair, 
clipped  close  into  the  nape  of  his  red-brown  neck.  If  only 
Mamma  wouldn't  cry  like  that  — 

"  Mark  —  " 

"  Is  that  Minky?  " 

They  held  each  other  and  let  go  in  one  tick  of  the  clock, 
but  she  had  stood  a  long  time  seeing  his  eyes  arrested 
in  their  rush  of  recognition.    Disappointed. 

The  square  dinner-table  stretched  itself  into  an  immense 
white  space  between  her  and  Mark.  It  made  itself  small 
again  for  Mark  and  Mamma.  Across  the  white  space  she 
heard  him  saying  things:  about  Dan  meeting  him  at  Til- 
bury, and  poor  Victor  coming  to  Liverpool  Street,  and 
Cox's.  Last  night  he  had  stayed  at  Ilford,  he  had  seen 
Bella  and  Edward  and  Pidgeon  and  Mrs.  Fisher  and  the 
Proparts.  *'  Do  you  remember  poor  Edward  and  his  sheep? 
And  Mary's  lamb!  " 

Mark  hadn't  changed,  except  that  he  was  firmer  and 
squarer,  and  thinner,  because  he  had  had  fever.  And  his 
eyes —    He  was  staring  at  her  with  his  disappointed  eyes. 

She  called  to  him.     "  You  don't  know  me  a  bit,  Mark." 

He  laughed.  "I  thought  I'd  see  somebody  grown  up. 
Victor  said  Mary  was  dreadfully  mature.  What  did  he 
mean?  " 

Mamma  said  she  was  sure  she  didn't  know. 

"  What  do  you  do  with  yourself  all  day,  Minky?  " 

"Nothing  much.  Read  —  work  —  play  tennis  with  Mr. 
Sutcliffe." 


MATURITY  239 

"Mr.  — Sutcliffe?" 

"  Never  mind  Mr.  Sutcliffe.  Mark  doesn't  want  to  hear 
about  him." 

"  Is  there  a  Mrs.  Sutcliffe?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Does  she  play?  " 

"  No.    She's  too  old.     Much  older  than  he  is." 

"  That'll  do,  Mary." 

Mamma's  eyes  blinked.  Her  forehead  was  pinched  with 
vexation.    Her  foot  tapped  on  the  floor. 

Mark's  eyes  kept  up  their  puzzled  stare. 

"  What's  been  happening? "  he  said.  "  What's  the 
matter?  Everywhere  1  go  there's  a  mystery.  There  was  a 
mystery  at  II ford.  About  Dan.  And  about  poor  Charlotte. 
I  come  down  here  and  there's  a  mystery  about  some  people 
called  Sutcliffe.  And  a  mystery  about  Mary."  He  laughed 
again.  "  Minky  seems  to  be  in  disgrace,  as  if  she'd  done 
something.  .  .  .^  It's  awfully  queer.  Mamma's  the  only 
person  something  hasn't  happened  to." 

"I  should  have  thought  everything  had  happened  to 
me,"  said  Mamma. 

"  That  makes  it  queerer." 

Mamma  went  up  with  Mark  into  his  room.  Papa's  room. 
You  could  hear  her  feet  going  up  and  down  in  it,  and  the 
squeaking  wail  of  the  wardrobe  door  as  she  opened  and  shut 
it. 

She  waited,  listening.  When  she  heard  her  mother  come 
downstairs  she  went  to  him. 

Mark  didn't  know  that  the  room  had  been  Papa's  room. 
He  didn't  know  that  she  shivered  when  she  saw  him  sitting 
on  the  bed.  She  had  stood  just  there  where  Mark's  feet 
were  and  watched  Papa  die.  She  could  feel  the  basin  slip- 
ping, slipping  from  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

Mark  wasn't  happy.  There  was  something  he  missed, 
something  he  wanted.  She  had  meant  to  say,  "  It's  all  right. 
Nothing's  happened.  I  haven't  done  anything,"  but  she 
couldn't  think  about  it  when  she  saw  him  sitting  there. 

"Mark  — what  is  it?" 

"  I  don't  know,  Minky." 

"  /  know.  You've  come  back,  and  it  isn't  like  what  you 
thought  it  would  be." 


240  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

''  No,"  he  said,  "  it  isn't.  ...  I  didn't  think  it  would  be  so 
awful  without  Papa." 

n 

The  big  package  in  the  hall  had  been  opened.  The 
tiger's  skin  lay  on  the  drawing-room  carpet. 

Mark  was  sorry  for  the  tiger. 

"  He  was  only  a  young  cat.  You'd  have  loved  him, 
Minky,  if  you'd  seen  him,  with  his  shoulders  down  —  very 
big  cat  —  shaking  his  haunches  at  you,  and  his  eyes  shining 
and  playing  ;  cat's  eyes,  sort  of  swimming  and  shaking  with 
his  fun." 

''  How  did  you  feel?  " 

"  Beastly  mean  to  go  and  shoot  him  when  he  was  happy 
and  excited." 

"  Five  years  without  any  fighting.  .  .  .  Anything  else 
happen?  " 

"  No.  No  polo.  No  fighting.  Only  a  mutiny  in  the 
battery  once." 

"  What  was  it  like?  " 

"  Oh,  it  just  tumbled  into  the  ofiice  and  yelled  and  waved 
jabby  things  and  made  faces  at  you  till  you  nearly  burst 
with  laughing." 

"  You  laughed?  "  Mamma  said.     ''  At  a  mutiny?  " 

''  Anybody  would.  Minky'd  have  laughed  if  she'd  been 
there.  It  frightened  them  horribly  because  they  didn't  ex- 
pect it.  The  poor  things  never  know  when  they're  being 
funny." 

"  What  happened,"  said  Mary,  "  to  the  mutiny?  " 

"  That." 

"  Oh  —  Mark  —  "    She  adored  him. 

She  went  to  bed,  happy,  thinking  of  the  tiger  and  the 
mutiny.  When  Catty  called  her  in  the  morning  she  jumped 
out  of  bed,  quickly,  to  begin  another  happy  day.  Every- 
thing was  going  to  be  interesting,  to  be  exciting. 

At  any  minute  anything  might  happen,  now  that  Mark 
had  come  home. 


MATURITY  241 


m 

"  Mark,  are  you  coming?  " 

She  was  tired  of  waiting  on  the  flagstones,  swinging  her 
stick.  She  called  through  tiie  house  for  him  to  come.  She 
looked  through  the  rooms,  and  found  him  in  the  study  with 
Mamma.  When  they  saw  her  they  stopped  talking  sud- 
denly, and  Mamma  drew  herself  up  and  blinked. 

Mark  shook  his  head.    After  all,  he  couldn't  come. 

Mamma  wanted  him.  Mamma  had  him.  As  long  as 
they  lived  she  would  have  him.  Mamma  and  Mark  were 
happy  together  ;  their  happiness  tingled,  you  could  feel  it 
tingling,  like  the  happiness  of  lovers.  They  didn't  want 
anybody  but  each  other.  You  existed  for  them  as  an  object 
in  some  unintelligible  time  and  in  a  space  outside  their  space. 
The  only  difference  was  that  Mark  knew  you  were  there  and 
Mamma  didn't. 

She  chose  the  Garthdale  road.  Yesterday  she  had  gone 
that  way  with  Mamma  and  Mark.  She  had  not  talked  to 
him,  for  when  she  talked  the  pinched,  vexed  look  came  into 
Mamma's  face  though  she  pretended  she  hadn't  heard  you. 
Every  now  and  then  Mark  had  looked  at  her  over  his 
shoulder  and  said,  "  Poor  Minx."  It  was  as  if  he  said, 
"  I'm  sorry,  but  you  see  how  it  is.     I  can't  help  it." 

And  just  here,  where  the  moor  track  touched  the  road, 
she  had  left  them,  clearing  the  water-courses,  and  had  gone 
up  towards  Karva. 

She  had  looked  back  and  seen  them  going  slowly  towards 
the  white  sickle  of  the  road,  Mark  very  upright,  taut  muscles 
held  in  to  his  shortened  stride ;  Mamma  pathetic  and  fragile, 
in  her  shawl,  moving  with  a  stiff,  self-hypnotised  air. 

Her  love  for  them  was  a  savage  pang  that  cut  her  eyes 
and  drew  her  throat  tight. 

Then  suddenly  she  had  heard  Mark  whooping,  and  she 
had  run  back,  whooping  and  leaping,  down  the  hill  to  walk 
with  them  again. 

She  turned  back  now,  at  the  sickle.  Perhaps  Mark 
would  come  to  meet  her. 

He  didn't  come.  She  found  them  sitting  close  on  the 
drawing-room  sofa;  the  tea-table  was  pushed  aside;  they 

R 


242  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

were  looking  at  Mark's  photographs.  She  came  and  stood 
by  them  to  see. 

Mark  didn't  look  up  or  say  anything.  He  went  on  giving 
the  photographs  to  Mamma,  telling  her  the  names.  "  Dicky 
Carter.  Man  called  St.  John.  Man  called  Bibby  —  Jonas 
Bibby.  Allingham.  Peters.  Gunning,  Stobart  Hamilton. 
Sir  George  Limond,  Colonel  Robertson." 

Photographs  of  women.  Mamma's  fingers  twitched  as 
she  took  them,  one  by  one.  Women  with  smooth  hair  and 
correct,  distinguished  faces.  She  looked  at  each  face  a 
long  time;  her  mouth  half-smiled,  half-pouted  at  them.  She 
didn't  hand  on  the  photographs  to  you,  but  laid  them  down 
on  the  sofa,  one  by  one,  as  if  you  were  not  there. 

A  youngish  woman  in  a  black  silk  gown ;  Mrs.  Robertson, 
the  Colonel's  wife.  A  girl  in  a  white  frock;  Mrs.  Dicky 
Carter,  she  had  nursed  Mark  through  his  fever.  A  tall 
woman  in  a  riding  habit  and  a  solar  topee,  standing  very 
straight,  looking  very  straight  at  you,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  topee.  Mamma  didn't  mind  the  others  so  much,  but 
she  was  afraid  of  this  one.  There  was  danger  under  the 
shadow  of  the  topee. 

"  Lady  Limond.  "  Mark  had  stayed  with  them  at  Simla. 

"  Oh.    Very  handsome  face." 

"  Very  handsome." 

You  could  see  by  Mark's  face  that  he  didn't  care  about 
Lady  Limond. 

Mamma  had  turned  again  to  the  girl  in  the  white  frock 
who  had  nursed  him. 

"  Are  those  all,  Mark?  " 

''  Those  are  all." 

She  took  off  her  glasses  and  closed  her  eyes.  Her  face 
was  smooth  now:  her  hands  were  quiet.  She  had  him. 
She  would  always  have  him. 

But  when  he  went  away  for  a  fortnight  to  stay  with  the 
man  called  St.  John,  she  was  miserable  till  he  had  come 
back,  safe. 

IV 

Whit  Sunday  morning.  She  would  walk  home  with 
Mark  after  church  while  Mamma  stayed  behind  for  the 
Sacrament. 


MATURITY  243 

But  it  didn't  happen.  Mark  scowled  as  he  turned  out 
into  the  aisle  to  make  way  for  her.  He  went  back  into  the 
pew  and  sat  there,  looking  stiff  and  stubborn.  He  would 
go  up  with  Mamma  to  the  altar  rails.  He  would  eat  the 
bread  and  drink  the  wine. 

That  afternoon  she  took  her  book  into  the  garden.  Mark 
came  to  her  there.  Mamma,  tired  with  the  long  service, 
dozed  in  the  drawing-room. 

Mark  read  over  her  shoulder:  "  '  Wir  haben  in  der  Trans- 
cendentalen  iEsthetik  hinreichend  bewiesen.'  Do  it  in 
English." 

"  'In  the  Transcendental  ^Esthetic  we  have  sufficiently 
proved  that  all  that  is  perceived  in  space  or  time,  and  with 
it  all  objects  of  any  experience  possible  to  us  are  mere  Vor- 
stellungen  —  Vorstellungen  —  ideas  —  presentations,  which, 
so  far  as  they  are  presented,  whether  as  extended  things  or 
series  of  changes,  have  no  existence  grounded  in  themselves 
outside  our  thoughts  —  '  " 

"  Why  have  j^ou  taken  to  that  dreadful  stodge?  " 

"  I'm  driven  to  it.  It's  like  drink;  once  you  begin  you've 
got  to  go  on." 

"  What  on  earth  made  you  begin?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  know  things  —  to  know  what's  real  and 
what  isn't,  and  what's  at  the  back  of  everything,  and 
whether  there  is  anything  there  or  not.  And  whether  you 
can  know  it  or  not.  And  how  you  can  know  anything  at  all, 
anyhow.    I'd  give  anything.  .  .  .  Are  you  listening?  " 

"  Yes,  Minky,  you'd  give  anything  —  " 

"  I'd  give  everything  —  everything  I  possess  —  to  know 
what  the  Thing-in-itself  is." 

"  I'd  rather  know  Arabic.  Or  how  to  make  a  gun  that 
would  find  its  own  range  and  feed  itself  with  bullets  sixty  to 
the  minute." 

"  That  would  be  only  knowing  a  few  more  things.  I  want 
the  thing.  Reality,  Substance,  the  Thing-in-itself.  Spinoza 
calls  it  God.  Kant  doesn't;  but  he  seems  to  think  it's  all 
the  God  you'll  ever  get,  and  that,  even  then,  you  can't  know 
it.     Transcendental  Idealism  is  just  another  sell." 

"  Supposing,"  Mark  said,  "  there  isn't  any  God  at  all." 

"  Then  I'd  rather  know  that  than  go  on  thinking  there 
was  one  when  there  wasn't." 


244  MARY    OLIVIER:     A   LIFE 

"  But  you'd  feel  sold?  " 

"  Sort  of  sold.  But  it's  the  risk  —  the  risk  that  makes 
it  so  exciting.  .  .  .  Why?  Do  you  think  there  isn't  any 
God?  " 

"  I'm  afraid  I  think  there  mayn't  be." 

"  Oh,  Mark  —  and  you  went  to  the  Sacrament.  You  ate 
it  and  drank  it." 

"  Why  shouldn't  I?  " 

"  You  don't  believe  in  it  any  more  than  I  do." 

"  I  never  said  anything  about  believing  in  it." 

"  You  ate  and  drank  it." 

"  Poor  Jesus  said  he  wanted  you  to  do  that  and  remember 
him.     I  did  it  and  remembered  Jesus." 

"  I  don't  care.     It  was  awful  of  you." 

"  Much  more  awful  to  spoil  Mamma's  pleasure  in  God 
and  Jesus.  I  did  it  to  make  her  happy.  Somebody  had  to 
go  with  her.  You  wouldn't,  so  I  did.  ...  It  doesn't  matter, 
Minky.     Nothing  matters  except  Mamma." 

"  Truth  matters.  You'd  die  rather  than  lie  or  do  any- 
thing dishonourable.     Yet  that  was  dishonourable." 

"  I'd  die  rather  than  hurt  Mamma.  ...  If  you  make  her 
unhappy,  Minky,  I  shall  hate  you." 


"  You  can't  go  in  that  thing." 

They  were  going  to  the  Sutcliffes'  dance.  Mamma  hadn't 
told  Mark  she  didn't  like  them.  She  wanted  Mark  to  go  to 
the  dance.  He  had  said  Morfe  was  an  awful  hole  and  it 
wasn't  good  for  you  to  live  in  it. 

The  frock  was  black  muslin,  ironed  out.  Mamma's  black 
net  Indian  scarf,  dotted  with  little  green  and  scarlet  flowers, 
was  drawn  tight  over  her  hips  to  hide  the  place  that  Catty 
had  scorched  with  the  iron.  The  heavy,  brilliant,  silk- 
embroidered  ends,  green  and  scarlet,  hung  down  behind. 
She  felt  exquisitely  light  and  slender. 

Mamma  was  shaking  her  head  at  Mark  as  he  stared  at 
you. 

"  If  you  knew,"  he  said,  "  what  you  look  like.  .  .  ,  That's 


MATURITY  245 

the  way  the  funny  ladies  dress  in  the  bazaars  —  If  you'd 
only  take  that  awful  thing  off." 

"  She  can't  take  it  off,"  Mamma  said.  "  He's  only  teasing 
you." 

Funny  ladies  in  the  bazaars  —  Funny  ladies  in  the  bazaars. 
Bazaars  were  Indian  shops.  .  .  .  Shop-girls.  .  .  .  Mark 
didn't  mean  shop-girls,  though.  You  could  tell  that  by  his 
face  and  by  Mamma's.  .  .  .  Was  that  what  you  really 
looked  like?  Or  was  he  teasing?  Perhaps  you  would  tell 
by  Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  face.     Or  by  Mr.  Sutcliffe's. 

Their  faces  were  nicer  than  ever.  You  couldn't  tell. 
They  would  never  let  you  know  if  anything  was  wrong. 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  said,  "  What  a  beautiful  scarf  you've  got 
on,  my  dear." 

"  It's  Mamma's.  She  gave  it  me."  She  wanted  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe  to  know  that  Mamma  had  beautiful  things  and  that 
Ghe  would  give  them.  The  scarf  was  beautiful.  Nothing 
could  take  from  her  the  feeling  of  lightness  and  slenderness 
she  had  in  it. 

Her  programme  stood:  Nobody.  Nobody.  Norman 
Waugh.  Dr.  Charles.  Mr.  Sutcliffe.  Mr.  Sutcliffe.  No- 
body. Nobody  again,  all  the  way  down  to  Mr.  Sutcliffe,  Mr. 
Sutcliffe,  Mr.  Sutcliffe.  Then  Mark.  Mr.  Sutcliffe  had 
wanted  the  last  dance,  the  polka;  but  she  couldn't  give  it 
him.    She  didn't  want  to  dance  with  anybody  after  Mark. 

The  big,  long  dining-room  was  cleared;  the  floor  waxed. 
People  had  come  from  Reyburn  and  Durlingham.  A  hollow 
square  of  faces.  Faces  round  the  walls.  Painted  faces 
hanging  above  them:  Mr.  Sutcliffe's  ancestors  looking  at 
you. 

The  awful  thing  was  she  didn't  know  how  to  dance.  Mark 
said  you  didn't  have  to  know.  It  would  be  all  right.  Per- 
haps it  would  come,  suddenly,  when  you  heard  the  music. 
Supposing  it  came  like  skating,  only  after  you  had  slithered 
a  lot  and  tumbled  down? 

The  feeling  of  lightness  and  slenderness  had  gone.  Her 
feet  stuck  to  the  waxed  floor  as  if  they  were  glued  there. 
She  was  frightened. 

It  had  begun.  Norman  Waugh  was  dragging  her  round 
the  room.    Once.    Twice.    She  hated  the  feeling  of  his  short, 


246  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

thick  body  moving  a  little  way  in  front  of  her.  She  hated 
his  sullen  bull's  face,  his  mouth  close  to  hers,  half  open, 
puffing.  From  the  walls  Mr.  Sutcliffe's  ancestors  looked  at 
you  as  you  shambled  round,  tied  tight  in  your  Indian  scarf, 
like  a  funny  lady  in  the  bazaars.  Raised  eyebrows.  Quiet, 
disdainful  faces.  She  was  glad  when  Norman  Waugh  left 
her  on  the  window-seat. 

Dr.  Charles  next.  He  was  kind.  You  trod  on  his  feet 
and  he  pretended  he  had  trodden  on  yours. 

"  My  dancing  days  are  over." 

"  And  mine  haven't  begun." 

They  sat  out  and  she  watched  Mark.  He  didn't  dance 
very  well:  he  danced  tightly  and  stiffly  as  if  he  didn't  like  it; 
but  he  danced:  with  Miss  Frewin  and  Miss  Louisa  Wright, 
because  nobody  else  would;  with  the  Acroyds  because  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe  made  him;  five  dances  with  Dorsy  Heron,  because 
he  liked  her,  because  he  was  sorry  for  her,  because  he  found 
her  looking  sad  and  shy  in  a  corner.  You  could  see  Dorsy's 
eyes  turn  and  turn,  restlessly,  to  look  at  Mark,  and  her  nose 
getting  redder  as  he  came  to  her. 

Dr.  Charles  watched  them.  You  knew  what  he  was 
thinking.  "  She's  in  love  with  him.  She  can't  take  her  eyes 
off  him." 

Supposing  you  told  her  the  truth?  "  He  won't  marry 
you.  He  won't  care  for  you.  He  won't  care  for  anybody 
but  Mamma.  Can't  you  see,  by  the  way  he  looks  at  you, 
the  way  he  holds  you?  It's  no  use  your  caring  for  him. 
It'll  only  make  your  little  nose  redder." 

He  wouldn't  mind  her  red  nose;  her  little  proud,  high- 
bridged  nose.  He  liked  her  small  face,  trying  to  look 
austere  with  shy  hare's  eyes;  her  vague  mouth,  pointed  at 
the  corners  in  a  sort  of  sharp  tenderness;  her  smooth,  otter- 
brown  hair  brushed  back  and  twisted  in  a  tight  coil  at  the 
nape  of  her  neck.  Dorsy  was  sweet  and  gentle  and  un- 
selfish. He  might  have  cared  for  Dorsy  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  Mamma.  Anyhow,  for  one  evening  in  her  life  Dorsy  was 
happy,  dancing  round  and  round,  with  her  wild  black  hare's 
eyes  shining. 

Mr.  Sutcliffe.    She  stood  up.    She  would  have  to  tell  him. 

"  I  can't  dance." 


MATURITY  247 

"  Nonsense.  You  can  run  and  you  can  jump.  Of  course 
you  can  dance." 

"  I  don't  know  how  to." 

"  The  sooner  you  learn  the  better.  I'll  teach  you  in  two 
minutes." 

He  steered  her  into  the  sheltered  bay  behind  the  piano. 
They  practised. 

"  Mark's  looking  at  us." 

"  Is  he?  What  has  he  done  to  you,  Mary?  We'll  go 
where  he  can't  look  at  us." 

They  went  out  into  the  hall. 

"  That's  it;  your  feet  between  mine.  In  and  out.  Don't 
throw  your  shoulders  back.  Don't  keep  your  elbows  in. 
It's  not  a  hurdle  race." 

"  I  wish  it  was." 

"  You  won't  in  a  minute.  Don't  count  your  steps.  Listen 
for  the  beat.     It's  the  beat  that  does  it." 

She  began  to  feel  light  and  slender  again. 

"  Now  you're  off.     You're  all  right." 

Off.  Turning  and  turning.  You  steered  through  the  open 
door,  in  and  out  among  the  other  dancers;  you  skimmed; 
you  swam,  whirling,  to  the  steady  tump-tump  of  the  piano, 
and  the  queer,  exciting  squeak  of  the  fiddles  — 

Whirling  together,  you  and  Mr.  Sutcliffe  and  the  piano 
and  the  two  fiddles.  One  animal,  one  light,  slender  animal, 
whirling  and  playing.  Every  now  and  then  his  arm  tight- 
ened round  your  waist  with  a  sort  of  impatience.  When  it 
slackened  you  were  one  light,  slender  animal  again,  four  feet 
and  four  arms  whirling  together,  the  piano  was  its  heart, 
going  tump-tump,  and  the  fiddles  — 

"  Why  did  I  think  I  couldn't  do  it?  " 

"  Funk.  Pure  funk.  You  wanted  to  dance  —  you  wanted 
to  so  badly  that  it  frightened  you." 

His  arm  tightened. 

As  they  passed  she  could  see  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  sitting  in  an 
arm-chair  pushed  back  out  of  the  dancers'  way.  She  looked 
tired  and  bored  and  a  little  anxious. 

When  the  last  three  dances  were  over  he  took  her  back 
to  Mark. 

Mark  scowled  after  Mr.  Sutcliffe. 


248  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  What  does  he  look  at  you  like  that  for?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  thinks  I'm  —  a  funny  lady  in  a  bazaar." 

"  That's  the  sort  of  thing  you  oughtn't  to  say." 

"  You  said  it." 

"  All  the  more  reason  why  you  shouldn't." 

He  put  his  arm  round  her  and  they  danced.    They  danced. 

"  You  can  do  it  all  right  now,"  he  said. 

"  I've  learnt.  He  taught  me.  He  took  me  outside  and 
taught  me.     I'm  not  frightened  any  more." 

Mark  was  dancing  better  now.  Better  and  better.  His 
eyes  shone  down  into  yours.     He  whispered, 

"  Minky  —  Poor  Minky  —  Pretty  Minky." 

He  swung  you.  He  lifted  you  off  your  feet.  He  danced 
like  mad,  carrying  you  on  the  taut  muscle  of  his  arm. 

Somebody  said,  "  That  chap's  waked  up  at  last.  Who's 
the  girl?  " 

Somebody  said,  "  His  sister." 

Mark  laughed  out  loud.  You  could  have  sworn  he  was 
enjoying  himself. 

But  when  he  got  home  he  said  he  hadn't  enjoyed  himself 
at  all.  And  he  had  a  headache  the  next  day.  It  turned  out 
that  he  hadn't  wanted  to  go.  He  hated  dancing.  Mamma 
said  he  had  only  gone  because  he  thought  you'd  like  it  and 
because  he  thought  it  would  be  good  for  you  to  dance  like 
other  people. 

VI 

"Why  are  you  always  going  to  the  Sutcliffes'?  "  Mark 
said  suddenly. 

"  Because  I  like  them." 

They  were  coming  down  the  fields  from  Grefiington  Edge 
in  sight  of  the  tennis  court. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  like  them  when  they  weren't  nice  to 
poor  Papa.  If  Mamma  doesn't  want  to  know  them  you 
oughtn't  to." 

Mark,  too.  Mark  saying  what  Mamma  said.  Her  heart 
swelled  and  tightened.    She  didn't  answer  him. 

"  Anyhow,"  he  said,  "  you  oughtn't  to  go  about  all  over 
the  place  with  old  Sutcliffe."    When  he  said  "  old  Sutcliffe  " 


MATURITY  249 

his  eyes  were  merry  and  insolent  as  they  used  to  be.  "  What 
do  you  do  it  for?  " 

"  Because  I  like  him.  And  because  there's  nobody  else 
who  wants  to  go  about  witli  me." 

''  There's  Miss  Heron." 

"  Dorsy  isn't  quite  the  same  thing." 

"  Whether  she  is  or  isn't  you've  got  to  chuck  it." 

"  Why?  " 

"  Because  Mamma  doesn't  like  it  and  I  don't  like  it.  That 
ought  to  be  enough."     (Like  Papa.) 

"  It  isn't  enough." 

"  Minky  —  why  are  you  such  a  brute  to  little  Mamma?  " 

"  Because  I  can't  help  it.  .  .  .  It's  all  very  well  for 
you  —  " 

Mark  turned  in  the  path  and  looked  at  her;  his  tight,  firm 
face  tighter  and  firmer.  She  thought:  "  He  doesn't  know. 
He's  like  Mamma.  He  won't  see  what  he  doesn't  want  to 
see.  It  would  be  kinder  not  to  tell  him.  But  I  can't  be  kind. 
He's  joined  with  Mamma  against  me.  They're  two  to  one. 
Mamma  must  have  said  something  to  make  him  hate  me." 
.  .  .  Perhaps  she  hadn't.  Perhaps  he  had  only  seen  her 
disapproving,  reproachful  face.  .  .  .  ''  If  he  says  another 
word  —  if  he  looks  like  that  again,  I  shall  tell  him." 

"  It's  different  for  you,"  she  said.  "  Ever  since  I  began 
to  grow  up  I  felt  there  was  something  about  Mamma  that 
would  kill  me  if  I  let  it.  I've  had  to  fight  for  every  single 
thing  I've  ever  wanted.  It's  awful  fighting  her,  when  she's 
so  sweet  and  gentle.    But  it's  either  that  or  go  under." 

"  Minky  —  you  talk  as  if  she  hated  you." 

"  She  does  hate  me." 

"  You  lie."    He  said  it  gently,  without  rancour. 

"  No.  I  found  that  out  years  ago.  She  doesn't  know 
she  hates  me.  She  never  knows  that  awful  sort  of  thing. 
And  of  course  she  loved  me  when  I  was  little.  She'd  love  me 
now  if  I  stayed  little,  so  that  she  could  do  what  she  liked 
with  me;  if  I'd  sit  in  a  corner  and  think  as  she  thinks,  and 
feel  as  she  feels  and  do  what  she  does." 

"  If  you  did  you'd  be  a  much  nicer  Minx." 

"  Yes.  Except  that  I  should  be  lying  then,  the  whole 
time.    Hiding  my  real  self  and  crushing  it.    It's  your  real 


250  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

self  she  hates  —  the  thing  she  can't  see  and  touch  and  get 
at  —  the  thing  that  makes  j-ou  different.  Even  when  I  was 
little  she  hated  it  and  tried  to  crush  it,  I  remember 
things  —  " 

"  You  don't  love  her.  You  wouldn't  talk  like  that  about 
her  if  you  loved  her." 

"  It's  because  I  love  her.  Her  self.  Her  real  self.  When 
she's  working  in  the  garden,  planting  flowers  with  her 
blessed  little  hands,  doing  what  she  likes,  and  when  she's 
reading  the  Bible  and  thinking  about  God  and  Jesus,  and 
when  she's  with  you,  Mark,  happy.  That's  her  real  self.  I 
adore  it.  Selves  are  sacred.  You  ought  to  adore  them. 
Anybody's  self.  Catty's.  ...  I  used  to  wonder  what  the 
sin  against  the  Holy  Ghost  was.  They  told  you  nobody 
knew  what  it  was.  I  know.  It's  that.  Not  adoring  the  self 
in  people.     Hating  it.     Trying  to  crush  it." 

"  I  see.  Mamma's  committed  the  sin  against  the  Holy 
Ghost,  has  she?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  laughed.  "  You  mustn't  go  about  saying  those  things. 
People  will  think  you  mad." 

"  Let  them.  I  don't  care  —  I  don't  care  if  you  think  I'm 
mad.     I  only  think  it's  beastly  of  you  to  say  so." 

"  You're  not  madder  than  I  am.  We're  all  mad.  Mad 
as  hatters.  You  and  me  and  Dank  and  Roddy  and  Uncle 
Victor.  Poor  Charlotte's  the  sanest  of  the  lot,  and  she's 
the  only  one  that's  got  shut  up." 

"  Why  do  you  say  she's  the  sanest?  " 

"  Because  she  knew  what  she  wanted." 

"  Yes.  She  knew  what  she  wanted.  She  spent  her  whole 
life  trying  to  get  it.  She  went  straight  for  that  one  thing. 
Didn't  care  a  hang  what  anybody  thought  of  her." 

"  So  they  said  poor  Charlotte  was  mad." 

"  She  was  only  mad  because  she  didn't  get  it." 

"  Yes,  Minx.  .  .  .  Would  poor  Minky  like  to  be 
married?  " 

"  No.  I'm  not  thinking  about  that.  I'd  like  to  write 
poems.  And  to  get  away  sometimes  and  see  places.  To 
get  away  from  Mamma." 

"  You  little  beast." 


MATURITY  251 

"  Not  more  beast  than  you.  You  got  away.  Altogether. 
I  believe  you  knew." 

"  Knew  what?  " 

Mark's  face  was  stiff  and  red.    He  was  angry  now. 

"  That  if  you  stayed  you'd  be  crushed.  Like  Roddy. 
Like  me." 

"  I  knew  nothing  of  the  sort." 

"  Deep  down  inside  you  you  knew.  You  were  afraid. 
That's  why  you  wanted  to  be  a  soldier.  So  as  not  to  be 
afraid.     So  as  to  get  away  altogether." 

"  You  little  devil.     You're  lying.    Lying." 

He  threw  his  words  at  you  softly,  so  as  not  to  hurt  you. 
"  Lying.  Because  you're  a  beast  to  Mamma  you'd  like  to 
think  I'm  a  beast,  too." 

"  No  —  no."  She  could  feel  herself  making  it  out  more 
and  more.  Flash  after  flash.  Till  she  knew  him.  She  knew 
Mark. 

"  You  had  to.  To  get  away  from  her,  to  get  away  from 
her  sweetness  and  gentleness  so  that  you  could  be  yourself; 
so  that  you  could  be  a  man." 

She  had  a  tremendous  flash. 

"  You  haven't  got  away  altogether.  Half  of  you  still 
sticks.  It'll  never  get  away.  .  .  .  You'll  never  love  any- 
body.   You'll  never  marry." 

"  No,  I  won't.     You're  right  there," 

"  Yes.  Papa  never  got  away.  That  was  why  he  was  so 
beastly  to  us." 

"  He  wasn't  beastly  to  us." 

"  He  was.  You  know  he  was.  You're  only  saying  that 
because  it's  what  Mamma  would  like  you  to  say.  .  .  .  He 
couldn't  help  being  beastly.  He  couldn't  care  for  us.  He 
couldn't  care  for  anybody  but  Mamma." 

"  That's  why  I  care  for  him,"  Mark  said. 

"  I  know,  .  .  .  None  of  it  would  have  mattered  if  we'd 
been  brought  up  right.  But  we  were  brought  up  all  wrong. 
Taught  that  our  selves  were  beastly,  that  our  wills  were 
beastly  and  that  everything  we  liked  was  bad.  Taught  to 
sit  on  our  wills,  to  be  afraid  of  our  selves  and  not  trust  them 
for  a  single  minute.  .  .  .  Mamma  was  glad  when  I  was 
jilted,  because  that  was  one  for  77ie." 


252  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Were  you  jilted?  " 

"  Yes.  She  thought  it  would  make  me  humble.  I  always 
was.  I  am.  I'm  afraid  of  my  self  now.  I  can't  trust  it.  I 
keep  on  asking  people  what  they  think  when  I  ought  to 
know.  .  .  .  But  I'm  going  to  stop  all  that.  I'm  going  to 
fight." 

"  Fight  little  Mamma?  " 

"  No,  Myself.  The  bit  of  me  that  claws  on  to  her  and 
can't  get  away.  My  body '11  stay  here  and  take  care  of  her 
all  her  life,  but  my  self  will  have  got  away.  It'll  get  away 
from  all  of  them.  It's  got  bits  of  them  sticking  to  it,  bits 
of  Mamma,  bits  of  Papa,  bits  of  Roddy,  bits  of  Aunt  Char- 
lotte. Bits  of  you,  Mark.  I  don't  want  to  get  away  from 
you,  but  I  shall  have  to.  You'd  kick  me  down  and  stamp 
on  me  if  you  thought  it  would  please  Mamma.  There 
mayn't  be  much  left  when  I'm  done,  but  at  least  it'll  be  me." 

"  Mad.     Quite  mad,  Minx.     You  ought  to  be  married." 

"  And  leave  little  Mamma?  .  .  .  I'll  race  you  from  the 
bridge  to  the  top  of  the  hill." 

He  raced  her.  He  wasn't  really  angry.  Deep  down 
inside  him  he  knew. 


VII 

November,  and  Mark's  last  morning.  He  had  got  pro- 
motion. He  was  going  back  to  India  with  a  new  battery. 
He  would  be  stationed  at  Poona,  a  place  he  hated.  Nothing 
ever  happened  as  he  wanted  it  to  happen. 

She  was  in  Papa's  room,  helping  him  to  pack.  The 
wardrobe  door  gave  out  its  squeaking  wail  again  and  again 
as  he  opened  it  and  threw  his  things  on  to  the  bed.  Her 
mother  had  gone  away  because  she  couldn't  bear  to  see 
them,  his  poor  things. 

They  were  all  folded  now  and  pressed  down  into  the 
boxes  and  portmanteaus.  She  sat  on  the  bed  with  Mark's 
sword  across  her  knees,  rubbing  vaseline  on  the  blade. 
Mark  came  and  stood  before  her,  looking  down  at  her, 

"  Minky,  I  don't  like  going  away  and  leaving  Mamma 
with  you.  .  .  .  When  I  went  before  you  promised  you'd 
be  kind  to  her." 


MATURITY  253 

"  What  do  I  do?  " 

There  was  a  groove  down  the  middle  of  the  blade  for 
the  blood  to  run  in. 

"  Do?  You  do  nothing.  Nothing.  You  don't  talk  to 
her.  You  don't  want  to  talk  to  her.  You  behave  as  if  she 
wasn't  there." 

The  blade  was  blunt.  It  would  have  to  be  sharpened 
before  Mark  took  it  into  a  battle.  Mark's  eyes  hurt  her. 
She  tried  to  fix  her  attention  on  the  blade. 

"  What  makes  you?  " 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said.  "  Wliatever  it  is  it  was  done 
long  ago." 

"  She  hasn't  got  anybody,"  he  said.  "  Roddy's  gone. 
Dan's  no  good  to  her.     She  won't  have  anybody  but  you." 

"  I  know,  Mark.     I  shall  never  go  away  and  leave  her." 

"  Don't  talk  about  going  away  and  leaving  her!  " 

•  •••••• 

He  didn't  want  her  to  see  him  off  at  the  train.  He 
wanted  to  go  away  alone,  after  he  had  said  good-bye  to 
Mamma.  He  didn't  want  Mamma  to  be  left  by  herself  after 
he  had  gone. 

They  stood  together  by  the  shut  door  of  the  drawing- 
room.  She  and  her  mother  stood  between  Mark  and  the 
door.  She  had  said  good-bye  a  minute  ago,  alone  with 
him  in  Papa's  room.  But  there  was  something  they  had 
missed  — 

She  thought:  ''We  must  get  it  now,  this  minute.  He'll 
say  good-bye  to  Mamma  last.  He'll  kiss  her  last.  But  I 
must  kiss  him  again,  first.  " 

She  came  to  him,  holding  up  her  face.  He  didn't  see  her; 
but  when  his  arm  felt  her  hand  it  jerked  up  and  pushed 
her  out  of  his  way,  as  he  would  have  pushed  anything  that 
stood  there  between  him  and  Mamma. 

XXVI 
I 

Old  Mr.  Peacock  of  Sarrack  was  dead,  and  Dr.  Kendal 
was  the  oldest  man  in  the  Dale.    He  was  not  afraid  of  death ; 


254  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

he  was  only  afraid  of  dying  before  Mr.  Peacock  died. 
Mamma  had  finished  building  the  rockery  in  the  garden. 
You  had  carried  all  the  stones.  There  were  no  more  stones 
to  carry.  That  was  all  that  had  happened  in  the  year  and 
nine  months  since  Mark  had  gone. 

To  you  nothing  happened.  Nothing  ever  would  happen. 
At  twenty-one  and  a  half  you  were  old  too,  and  very  wise. 
You  had  given  up  expecting  things  to  happen.  You  put  1883 
on  your  letters  to  Mark  and  Dan  and  Roddy,  instead  of 
1882.  Then  1884.  You  measured  time  by  the  poems  you 
wrote  and  by  the  books  you  read  and  by  the  Sutcliffes'  going 
abroad  in  January  and  coming  back  in  March. 

You  had  advanced  from  the  Critique  of  Pure  Reason  to 
the  Critique  of  Practical  Reason,  and  the  Critique  of  Judg- 
ment and  the  Prolegomena.  And  in  the  end  you  were 
cheated.  You  would  never  know  the  only  thing  worth 
knowing.  Reality.  For  all  you  knew  there  was  no  Reality, 
no  God,  no  freedom,  no  immortality.  Only  doing  your  ciuty. 
"  You  can  because  you  ought."  Kant,  when  you  got  to 
the  bottom  of  him,  was  no  more  exciting  than  Mamma. 
"  Du  kannst,  weil  du  sollst." 

Why  not  "  You  can  because  you  shall  "?  It  would  never 
do  to  let  Mamma  know  what  Kant  thought.  She  would  say 
"  Your  Bible  could  have  told  you  that." 

There  was  Schopenhauer,  though.  He  didn't  cheat  you. 
There  was  "  reine  Anschauung, "  pure  perception  ;  it  hap- 
pened when  you  looked  at  beautiful  things.  Beautiful  things 
were  crystal;  you  looked  through  them  and  saw  Reality. 
You  saw  God.  While  the  crystal  flash  lasted  "Wille  und 
Vorstellung,"  the  Will  and  the  Idea,  were  not  divided  as 
they  are  in  life;  they  were  one.  That  was  why  beautiful 
things  made  you  happy. 

And  there  was  Mamma's  disapproving,  reproachful  face. 
Sometimes  you  felt  that  you  couldn't  stand  it  for  another 
minute.  You  wanted  to  get  away  from  it,  to  the  other  end 
of  the  world,  out  of  the  world,  to  die.  When  you  were 
dead  perhaps  you  would  know.  Or  perhaps  you  wouldn't. 
Perhaps  death  would  cheat  you,  too. 


MATURITY  255 


n 

"  Oh  —  have  I  come  too  soon?  " 

She  had  found  Mr.  Sutcliffe  at  his  writing-table  in  the 
library,  a  pile  of  papers  before  him.  He  turned  in  his  chair 
and  looked  at  her  above  the  fine,  lean  hand  that  passed  over 
his  face  as  if  it  brushed  cobwebs. 

"  They  didn't  tell  me  you  were  busy." 

"  I'm  not.     I  ought  to  be,  but  I'm  not." 

"  You  are.  I'll  go  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  till  you've 
finished." 

"  No.  You'll  stay  here  and  talk  to  me.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe 
really  is  busy." 

"  Sewing-party?  " 

"  Sewing-party." 

She  could  see  them  sitting  round  the  dining-room:  Mrs. 
Waugh  and  Miss  Frewin,  Mrs.  Belk  with  her  busy  eyes,  and 
Miss  Kendal  and  Miss  Louisa,  Mrs.  Oldshaw  and  Dorsy; 
and  Mrs.  Horn,  the  grocer's  wife,  very  stiff  in  a  corner  by 
herself,  sewing  unbleached  calico  and  hot  red  flannel,  hot 
sunlight  soaking  into  them.  The  library  was  dim,  and 
leathery  and  tobaccoey  and  cool. 

The  last  time  she  came  on  a  Wednesday  Mrs.  Sutcliffe 
had  popped  out  of  the  dining-room  and  made  them  go  round 
to  the  tennis  court  by  the  back,  so  that  they  might  not  be 
seen  from  the  windows.  She  wondered  why  Mrs.  Sutcliffe 
was  so  afraid  of  them  being  seen,  and  why  she  had  not 
looked  quite  pleased. 

And  to-day  —  there  was  something  about  Mr.  Sutcliffe. 

"  You  don't  want  to  play?  " 

"  After  tea.  When  it's  cooler.  We'll  have  it  in  here. 
By  ourselves."    He  got  up  and  rang  the  bell. 

The  tea-table  between  them,  and  she,  pouring  out  the  tea. 
She  was  grown  up.  Her  hair  was  grown  up.  It  lay  like  a 
wreath,  plaited  on  the  top  of  her  head. 

He  was  smoothing  out  the  wrinkles  of  one  hand  with 
the  other,  and  smiling.  "  Everybody  busy  except  you  and 
me,  Mary.  .  .  .  How  are  you  getting  on  with  Kant?  " 

"  I've  done  with  him.  It's  taken  me  four  years.  You 
see,  either  the  German's  hard  or  I'm  awfully  stupid." 


256  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  German  hard,  I  should  imagine.     Do  you  like  Kant?  " 

"  I  like  him  awfully  when  he  says  exciting  things  about 
Space  and  Time.  I  don't  like  him  when  he  goes  maunder- 
ing on  about  his  old  Categorical  Imperative.  You  can  be- 
cause you  ought  —  putting  you  off,  like  a  clergyman." 

"  Kant  said  that,  did  he?  That  shoM's  what  an  old  hum- 
bug he  was.  .  .  .    And  it  isn't  true,  Mary,  it  isn't  true." 

"If  it  w^as  it  wouldn't  prove  anything.  That's  what 
bothers  me." 

"  What  bothers  me  is  that  it  isn't  true.  If  I  did  what  I 
ought  I'd  be  the  busiest  man  in  England.  I  wouldn't  be 
sitting  here.  If  I  even  did  what  I  want  —  Do  you  know 
what  I  should  like  to  do?  To  farm  my  own  land  instead  of 
letting  it  out  to  these  fellows  here.  I  don't  suppose  you 
think  me  clever,  but  I've  got  ideas." 

"  What  sort  of  ideas?  " 

"  Practical  ideas.  Ideas  that  can  be  carried  out.  That 
ought  to  be  carried  out  because  they  can.  Ideas  about 
cattle-breeding,  cattle-feeding,  chemical  manuring,  housing, 
labour,  wages,  everything  that  has  to  do  with  farming." 

Two  years  ago  you  talked  and  he  listened.  Now  that  you 
were  grown  up  he  talked  to  you  and  you  listened.  He  had 
said  it  would  make  a  difference.  That  was  the  difference  it 
made. 

"  Here  I  am,  a  landowner  who  can't  do  anything  with  his 
land.  And  I  can't  do  anything  for  my  labourers,  Mary.  If 
I  keep  a  dry  roof  over  their  heads  and  a  dry  floor  under  their 
feet  I'm  supposed  to  have  done  my  duty.  .  .  .  People  will 
tell  you  that  Mr.  Sootcliffe's  the  great  man  of  the  place,  but 
half  of  them  look  down  on  him  because  he  doesn't  farm  his 
own  land,  and  the  other  half  kow-tow  to  him  because  he 
doesn't,  because  he's  the  landlord.  And  they  all  think  I'm 
a  dangerous  man.  They  don't  like  ideas.  They're  afraid 
of  'em.  ...  I'd  like  to  sell  every  acre  I've  got  here  and 
buy  land  —  miles  and  miles  of  it  —  that  hasn't  been  farmed 
before.  I'd  show  them  what  farming  is  if  you  bring  brains 
to  it." 

"  I  see.    You  could  do  that." 

"  Could  I?  The  land's  entailed.  I  can't  sell  it  away 
from  my  son.     And  he'll  never  do  anything  with  it." 


MATURITY  257 

"  Aren't  there  other  things  you  could  have  done?  " 

"  I  suppose  I  could  have  got  the  farmers  out.  Turned 
them  off  the  land  they've  sweated  their  lives  into.  Or  I 
could  have  sold  my  town  house  instead  of  letting  it  and 
bought  land." 

"Of  course  you  could.     Oh  —  why  didn't  you?" 

"  Why  didn't  I?  Ah  —  now  you've  got  mc.  Because  I'm 
a  lazy  old  humbug,  Mary.  All  my  farming's  in  my  head 
when  it  isn't  on  my  conscience." 

"  You  don't  really  like  farming:  you  only  think  you  ought 
to.    What  do  you  really  like?  " 

"  Going  away.  Getting  out  of  this  confounded  country 
into  the  South  of  France.  I'm  not  really  happy,  Mary,  till 
I'm  pottering  about  my  garden  at  Agaye." 

She  looked  wliere  he  was  looking.  Two  drawings  above 
the  chimney-piece.  A  chain  of  red  hills  swung  out  into  a 
blue  sea.  The  Esterel.  A  pink  and  white  house  on  the 
terrace  of  a  hill.     House  and  hill  blazing  out  sunshine. 

Agaye.  Agaye.  Pottering  about  his  garden  at  Agaye. 
He  was  happy  there. 

"  Well,  you  can  get  away.    To  Agaye." 

"  Not  as  much  as  I  should  like.  My  wife  can't  stand 
more  than  six  weeks  of  it." 

"  So  that  you  aren't  really  happy  at  Agaye,  ...  I 
thought  I  was  the  only  person  who  felt  like  that.  Miserable 
because  I've  been  doing  my  own  things  instead  of  sewing, 
or  reading  to  Mamma." 

"  That's  the  way  conscience  makes  cowards  of  us  all." 

"  If  it  was  even  my  conscience.  But  it's  Mamma's. 
And  her  conscience  was  Grandmamma's.  And  Grand- 
mamma's—  " 

"  And  mine?  " 

"  Isn't  yours  a  sort  of  landlord's  conscience?  Your 
father's?  " 

"  No.  No.  It's  mine  all  right.  My  youth  had  a  con- 
science." 

"Are  you  sure  it  wasn't  put  off  with  somebody  else's?  " 

"  Perhaps.  At  Oxford  we  were  all  social  reformers.  The 
collective  conscience  of  the  group,  perhaps.  I  wasn't  strong 
enough  to  rise  to  it.    Wasn't  strong  enough  to  resist  it.  ,  .  . 


258  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Don't  you  do  that,  my  child.     Find  out  what  you  want,  and 

when  you  see  your  chance  coming,  take  it.     Don't  funk  it." 
"  I  don't  see  any  chance  of  getting  away." 
"  Where  do  vou  want  to  get  away  to?  " 
"  There.    Agaye." 
He   leaned   forward.     His   eyes   glittered.     "  You'd   like 

that?  " 

"  I'd  like  it  more  than  anything  on  earth." 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  some  day  you'll  go  there." 

"  No.     Don't  let's  talk  about  it.     I  shall  never  go." 

"  I  don't  see  why  not.     I  don't  really  see  why  not." 

She  shook  her  head.     "  No.     That  sort  of  thing  doesn't 

happen." 

ni 

She  stitched  and  stitched,  making  new  underclothing. 

It  was  going  to  happen.  Summer  and  Christmas  and  the 
New  Year  had  gone.  In  another  week  it  would  happen. 
She  would  be  sitting  with  the  Sutcliiffes  in  the  Paris-Lyons- 
Mediterranee  express,  going  with  them  to  Agaye.  She  had 
to  have  new  underclothing.  They  would  be  two  days  in 
Paris.  They  would  pass,  in  the  train,  through  Dijon, 
Avignon,  Toulon  and  Cannes,  then  back  to  Agaye.  She  had 
no  idea  what  it  would  be  like.  Only  the  sounds,  Agaye,  rose 
up  out  of  the  other  sounds,  like  a  song,  a  slender  foreign 
song,  bright  and  clear,  that  you  could  sing  without  knowing 
what  it  meant.  She  would  stay  there  with  the  Sutcliffes, 
for  weeks  and  weeks,  in  the  pink  and  white  house  on  the 
terrace.    Perhaps  they  would  go  on  into  Italy. 

Mr.  Sutcliffe  was  going  to  send  to  Cook's  for  the  tickets 
to-morrow.  Expensive,  well-fitting  clothes  had  come_  from 
Durlingham,  so  that  nothing  could  prevent  it  happening. 

Mr.  Sutcliffe  was  paying  for  her  ticket.  Uncle  Victor 
had  paid  for  the  clothes.  He  had  kept  on  writing  to  Mamma 
and  telling  her  that  she  really  ought  to  let  you  go.  Aunt 
Bella  and  Uncle  Edward  had  written,  and  Mrs.  Draper,  and 
in  the  end  Mamma  had  given  in. 

At  first  she  had  said,  "  I  won't  hear  of  your  going  abroad 
with  the  Sutcliffes,"  and,  "  The  Sutcliffes  seem  to  thmk 


MATURITY  259 

they've  a  right  to  take  you  away  from  me.  They've  only  to 
say  '  Come  '  and  you'll  go."  Then,  "  I  suppose  you'll  have 
to  go,"  and,  "  I  don't  know  what  your  Uncle  Victor  thinks 
they'll  do  for  you,  but  he  shan't  say  I've  stood  in  your  way." 
And  suddenly  her  face  left  off  disapproving  and  reproaching 
and  behaved  as  it  did  on  Christmas  Days  and  birthdays. 

She  smiled  now  as  she  sat  still  and  sewed,  as  she  watched 
you  sitting  still  and  sewing,  making  new  underclothes. 

Aunt  Bella  would  come  and  stay  with  Mamma,  then  Aunt 
Lavvy,  then  Mrs.  Draper,  so  that  she  would  not  be  left 
alone. 

Stitch  —  stitch.  She  wondered:  Supposing  they  weren't 
coming?  Could  she  have  left  her  mother  alone,  or  would 
she  have  given  up  going  and  stayed?  No.  She  couldn't 
have  given  it  up.  She  had  never  wanted  anything  in  her 
life  as  she  wanted  to  go  to  Agaye  with  the  Sutcliffes.  With 
Mr.  Sutcliffe.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  didn't  count;  she  wouldn't  do 
anything  at  Agaye,  she  would  just  trail  about  in  the  back- 
ground, kind  and  smiling,  in  a  shawl.  She  might  almost  as 
well  not  be  there. 

Tlie  happiness  was  too  great.  She  could  not  possibly 
have  given  it  up. 

She  went  on  stitching.  Mamma  went  on  stitching.  Catty 
brought  the  lamp  in. 

Then  Roddy's  telegram  came.     From  Queenstown. 

"  Been  ill.  Coming  home.  Expect  me  to-morrow.  Rod- 
ney." 

She  knew  then  that  she  would  not  go  to  Agaye. 


IV 

But  not  all  at  once. 

When  she  thought  of  Roddy  it  was  easy  to  say  quietly 
to  herself,  ''  I  shall  have  to  give  it  up."  When  she  thought 
of  Mr.  Sutcliffe  and  the  Paris-Lyons-Mediterranee  train  and 
the  shining,  gold-white,  unknown  towns,  it  seemed  to  her 
that  it  was  impossible  to  give  up  going  to  Agaye.  You 
simply  could  not  do  it. 

She  shut  her  eyes.  She  could  feel  Mr.  Sutcliffe  beside  her 
in  the  train  and  the  carriage  rocking.     Dijon,  Avignon, 


260  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Cannes.  She  could  hear  his  voice  telling  her  the  names. 
She  would  stand  beside  him  at  the  window,  and  look  out. 
And  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  would  sit  in  her  corner,  and  smile  at 
them  kindly,  glad  because  they  were  so  happy. 

"  Roddy  doesn't  say  he  is  ill,"  her  mother  said.  "  I  won- 
der what  he's  coming  home  for." 

Supposing  you  had  really  gone?  Supposing  you  were  at 
Agaye  when  Roddy  — 

The  thought  of  Roddy  gave  her  a  pain  in  her  heart.  The 
thought  of  not  going  to  Agaye  dragged  at  her  waist  and 
made  her  feel  weak,  suddenly,  as  if  she  were  trying  to  stand 
after  an  illness. 

She  went  up  to  her  room.  The  shoulder  line  of  Greffing- 
ton  Edge  was  fixed  across  the  open  window,  immovable, 
immutable.  Her  knees  felt  tired.  She  lay  down  on  her  bed, 
staring  at  the  immovable,  immutable  white  walls.  She  tried 
to  think  of  Substance,  of  the  Reality  behind  appearances. 
She  could  feel  her  mind  battering  at  the  walls  of  her  body, 
the  walls  of  her  room,  the  walls  of  the  world.  She  could 
hear  it  crying  out. 

She  was  kneeling  now  beside  her  bed.  She  could  see  her 
arms  stretched  out  before  her  on  the  counterpane,  and  her 
hands,  the  finger-tips  together.  She  pressed  her  weak,  drag- 
ging waist  tighter  against  the  bed. 

"If  Anything's  there  —  if  Anything's  there  —  make  me 
give  up  going.  Make  me  think  about  Roddy.  Not  about 
myself.  About  Roddy.  Roddy.  Make  me  not  want  to  go 
to  Agaye." 

She  didn't  really  believe  that  anything  would  happen. 

Her  mind  left  off  crying.  Outside,  the  clock  on  the  Con- 
gregational Chapel  was  striking  six.  She  was  aware  of  a 
sudden  checking  and  letting  go,  of  a  black  stillness  coming 
on  and  on,  hushing  sound  and  sight  and  the  touch  of  her 
arms  on  the  rough  counterpane,  and  her  breathing  and  the 
beating  of  her  heart.  There  was  a  sort  of  rhythm  in  the 
blackness  that  caught  you  and  took  you  into  its  peace. 
When  the  thing  stopped  you  could  almost  hear  the  click. 

She  stood  up.  Her  white  room  was  grey.  Across  the 
window  the  shoulder  of  the  hill  had  darkened.  Out  there 
the  night  crouched,  breathing  like  an  immense,  quiet  animal. 


MATURITY  261 

She  had  a  sense  of  exquisite  security  and  clarity  and  joy. 
She  was  not  going  to  Agaye.     She  didn't  want  to  go. 

She  thought:  "I  shall  have  to  tell  the  Sutcliffes.  Now, 
this  evening.  And  Mamma.  They'll  be  sorry  and  Mamma 
will  be  glad." 

But  Mamma  was  not  glad.  Mamma  hated  it  when  you 
upset  arrangements.  She  said,  "  I  declare  I  never  saw  any- 
body like  you  in  my  life.  After  all  the  trouble  and 
expense." 

But  you  could  see  it  was  Roddy  she  was  thinking  about. 
She  didn't  want  to  believe  there  was  anything  the  matter 
with  him.  If  you  went  that  would  look  as  though  he  was 
all  right. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  the  Sutcliffes  will  think?  And 
your  Uncle  Victor?  With  all  those  new  clothes  and  that 
new  trunk?  " 

"He'll  understand." 

''  Will  he!  " 

"  Mr.  Sutcliffe,  I  mean." 


She  went  down  to  GreflBngton  Hall  that  night  and  told 
him.     He  understood. 

But  not  quite  so  well  as  Mrs.  Sutcliffe.  She  gave  you  a 
long  look,  sighed,  and  smiled.  Almost  you  would  have 
thought  she  was  glad.  He  didn't  look  at  you.  He  looked 
down  at  his  own  lean  fine  hands  hanging  in  front  of  him. 
You  could  see  them  trembling  slightly.  And  when  you  were 
going  he  took  3'ou  into  the  library  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Is  this  necessary,  Mary?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes.    We  don't  quite  know  what's  wrong  with  Roddy." 

"  Then  why  not  wait  and  sec?  " 

"  Because  I  do  know.  And  Mamma  doesn't.  There's 
something,  or  he  wouldn't  have  come  home." 

A  long  pause.  She  noticed  little  things  about  him.  The 
proud,  handsome  corners  of  his  mouth  had  loosened;  his 
eyelids  didn't  fit  nicely  as  they  used  to  do;  they  hung  slack 
from  the  eyebone. 

"  You  care  more  for  Roddy  than  you  do  for  Mark,"  he 
said. 


262  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  I  don't  care  for  him  half  so  much.  But  I'm  sorry  for 
him.  You  can't  be  sorry  for  Mark.  .  .  ,  Roddy  wants  me 
and  Mark  doesn't.     He  wants  nobody  but  Mamma." 

"  He  knows  what  he  wants.  .  .  .  Well.  It's  my  fault. 
I  should  have  known  what  I  wanted.  I  should  have  taken 
you  a  year  ago." 

"  If  you  had,"  she  said,  "  it  would  have  been  all  over 
now." 

"  I  wonder,  would  it?  " 

For  the  life  of  her  she  couldn't  imagine  what  he  meant. 

When  she  got  home  she  found  her  mother  folding  up  the 
work  in  the  work-basket. 

"  Well,  anyhow,"  Mamma  said,  "  you've  laid  in  a  good 
stock  of  underclothing." 


VI 

She  was  sitting  in  the  big  leather  chair  in  the  consulting- 
room.  The  small  grey-white  window  panes  and  the  black 
crooked  bough  of  the  apple  tree  across  them  made  a  pattern 
in  her  brain.  Dr.  Charles  stood  before  her  on  the  hearth- 
rug. She  saw  his  shark's  tooth,  hanging  sharp  in  the  snap 
of  his  jaws.     He  was  powerful,  savage  and  benevolent. 

He  had  told  her  what  was  wrong  with  Roddy. 

"  What  —  does  —  it  —  mean?  " 

The  savage  light  went  out  of  his  eyes.  They  were  dull 
and  kind  under  his  red  shaggy  eyebrows. 

"  It  means  that  you  won't  have  him  with  you  very  long, 
Mary." 

That  Roddy  would  die.  That  Roddy  would  die.  Roddy. 
That  was  what  he  had  come  home  for. 

"  He  ought  never  to  have  gone  out  with  his  heart  in  that 
state.  It  beats  me  how  he's  pulled  through  those  five  years. 
Five  weeks  of  it  were  enough  to  kill  him.  .  .  .  Jem  Alderson 
must  have  taken  mighty  good  care  of  him." 

Jem  Alderson.  She  remembered.  The  big  shoulders,  the 
little  screwed  up  eyes,  the  long  moustaches,  the  good,  glad- 
iator face.  Jem  Alderson  had  taken  care  of  him.  Jem 
Alderson  had  cared. 

"  I  don't  know  what  your  mother  could  have  been  think- 
ing of  to  let  him  go." 


MATURITY  263 

"  Mamma  doesn't  think  of  things.  It  wasn't  her  fault. 
She  didn't  know.  Uncle  Edward  and  Uncle  Victor  made 
him." 

"  They  ought  to  be  lumg  for  it." 

"  They  didn't  know,  either.     It  was  my  fault.     I  knew." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  known,  that  she  had  known 
all  the  time,  that  she  remembered  knowing. 

"  Did  he  tell  you?  " 

"  He  didn't  tell  anybody.  .  .  .    Did  he  know?  " 

"  Yes,  Mary.  He  came  to  me  to  be  overhauled.  I  told 
him  he  wasn't  fit  to  go." 

"  I  did  try  to  stop  him." 

''Why?" 

He  looked  at  her  sharply,  as  if  he  were  trying  to  find  out 
something,  to  fix  responsibility. 

"  Because  I  knew." 

"  You  couldn't  have  known  if  nobody  told  you." 

"  I  did  know.  If  he  dies  I  shall  have  killed  him.  I  ought 
to  have  stopped  him.     I  was  the  only  one  who  knew." 

"  You  couldn't  have  stopped  him.  You  were  only  a  child 
yourself  when  it  happened.  If  anybody  was  to  blame  it 
was  his  mother." 

"  It  wasn't.  She  didn't  know.  Mamma  never  knows  any- 
thing she  doesn't  want  to  know.  She  can't  see  that  he's  ill 
now.  She  talks  as  if  he  ought  to  do  something.  She  can't 
stand  men  who  don't  do  things  like  Mark  and  Dan." 

"  What  on  earth  does  she  suppose  he  could  do?  He's  no 
more  fit  to  do  anything  than  my  brother  James.  .  .  .  You'll 
have  to  take  care  of  him,  Mary." 

A  sharp  and  tender  pang  went  through  her.  It  was  like 
desire;  like  the  feeling  you  had  when  you  thought  of  babies; 
painful  and  at  the  same  time  delicious. 

"  Could  you?  "  said  Dr.  Charles. 

"  Of  course  I  can." 

"  If  he's  taken  care  of  he  might  live  —  " 

She  stood  up  and  faced  him.     "  How  long?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Perhaps  —  "  He  went  with  her  to  chc 
door.     "  Perhaps,"  he  said,  "  quite  a  long  time." 

(But  if  he  didn't  live  she  would  have  killed  him.  She 
had  known  all  the  time,  and  she  had  let  him  go.) 


264  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Through  the  dining-room  window  she  could  see  Roddy  as 
he  crouched  over  the  hearth,  holding  out  his  hands  to  the 
fire. 

He  was  hers,  not  Mamma's,  to  take  care  of.  Sharp, 
delicious  pain! 


VII 

"Oh,  Roddy  —  look!  Little,  little  grouse,  making  nice 
noises." 

The  nestlings  went  flapping  and  stumbling  through  the 
roots  of  the  heather.  Roddy  gazed  at  them  with  his  fixed 
and  mournful  eyes.  He  couldn't  share  your  excitement.  He 
drew  back  his  shoulders,  bracing  himself  to  bear  it;  his  lips 
tightened  in  a  hard,  bleak  grin.  He  grinned  at  the  absurdity 
of  your  supposing  that  he  could  be  interested  in  anything 
any  more. 

Roddy's  beautiful  face  was  bleached  and  sharpened;  the 
sallow,  mauve-tinted  skin  stretched  close  over  the  bone ;  but 
below  the  edge  of  his  cap  you  could  see  the  fine  spring  of 
his  head  from  his  neck,  like  the  spring  of  Mark's  head. 

They  were  in  April  now.  He  was  getting  better.  He 
could  walk  up  the  lower  slopes  of  Karva  without  panting. 

"  Why  are  we  ever  out?  "  he  said.  "  Supposing  we  went 
home?  " 

"All  right.    Let's." 

He  was  like  that.  When  he  was  in  the  house  he  wanted 
to  be  on  the  moor;  when  he  was  on  the  moor  he  wanted  to 
be  back  in  the  house.  They  started  to  go  home,  and  he 
turned  again  towards  Karva.  They  went  on  till  they  came 
to  the  round  pit  sunk  below  the  track.  They  rested  there, 
sitting  on  the  stones  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit. 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  I  can't  stay  here.  I  shall  have  to  go 
back.    To  Canada,  I  mean." 

"  You  shall  never  go  back  to  Canada,"  she  said. 

"  I  must.  Not  to  the  Aldersons.  I  can't  go  there  again, 
because  —  I  can't  tell  you  why.  But  if  I  could  I  wouldn't. 
I  was  no  good  there.     They  let  you  know  it." 

"  Jem?  " 

"  No.    He  was  all  right.    That  beastly  woman." 


MATURITY  265 

"  What  woman?  " 

"  His  aunt.  She  didn't  want  me  there.  I  wasn't  fit  for 
anything  but  driving  cattle  and  cleaning  out  their  stinking 
pigsties.  .  .  .  She  used  to  look  at  me  when  I  was  eating. 
You  could  see  she  was  thinking  '  He  isn't  worth  his  keep.' 
.  .  .  Her  mouth  had  black  teeth  in  it,  with  horrible  gummy- 
gaps  between.  The  women  were  like  that.  I  wanted  to  hit 
her  on  the  mouth  and  smash  her  teeth.  .  .  .  But  of  course 
I  couldn't." 

"  It's  all  over.    You  mustn't  think  about  it." 

"  I'm  not.  I'm  thinking  about  the  other  thing.  .  .  .  The 
thing  I  did.    And  the  dog,  Mary;  the  dog." 

She  knew  what  was  coming. 

"  You  can't  imagine  what  that  place  was  like.  Their 
sheep-run  was  miles  from  the  farm.  Miles  from  anything. 
You  had  to  take  it  in  turns  to  sleep  there  a  month  at  a  time, 
in  a  beastly  hut.  You  couldn't  sleep  because  of  that  dog. 
Jem  would  give  him  me.  He  yapped.  You  had  to  put  him 
in  the  shed  to  keep  him  from  straying.  He  yapped  all 
night.  The  yapping  was  the  only  sound  there  was.  It  tore 
pieces  out  of  your  brain.  ...  I  didn't  think  I  could  hate  a 
dog.  .  .  .  But  I  did  hate  him.  I  simply  couldn't  stand  the 
yapping.  And  one  night  I  got  up  and  hung  him.  I  hung 
him." 

"  You  didn't,  Roddy.  You  know  you  didn't.  The  first 
time  you  told  me  that  story  you  said  you  found  him  hang- 
ing. Don't  you  remember?  He  was  a  bad  dog.  He  bit  the 
sheep.    Jem's  uncle  hung  him." 

"  No.  It  was  me.  Do  you  know  what  he  did?  He  licked 
my  hands  when  I  was  tying  the  rope  round  his  neck.  He 
played  with  my  hands.  He  was  a  j^ellow  dog  with  a  white 
breast  and  white  paws.  .  .  .  And  that  isn't  the  worst. 
That  isn't  It." 

"  It?  " 

"  The  other  thing.  What  I  did.  ...  I  haven't  told  you 
that.  You  couldn't  stand  me  if  you  knew.  It  was  why  1 
had  to  go.  Somebody  must  have  known.  Jem  must  have 
known." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  did  anything.    Anything  at  all." 

"  I  tell  you  I  did." 


266  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  No,  Roddy.  You  only  think  you  did.  You  only  think 
you  hung  the  dog." 

They  got  up  out  of  the  pit.  They  took  the  track  to  the 
schoolhousc  lane.  A  sheep  staggered  from  its  bed  and 
stalked  away,  bleating,  with  head  thrown  back  and  shaking 
buttocks.  Plovers  got  up,  wheeling  round,  sweeping  close. 
"  Pee-vit  —  Pee-vit.     FQe-vitt!  " 

"  This  damned  place  is  full  of  noises,"  Roddy  said. 


VIII 

"  The  mind  can  bring  it  about,  that  all  bodily  modifica- 
tions or  images  of  things  may  be  referred  to  the  idea  of 
God." 

The  book  stood  open  before  her  on  the  kitchen  table, 
propped  against  the  scales.  As  long  as  you  were  only  strip- 
ping the  strings  from  the  French  beans  you  could  read. 

The  mind  can  bring  it  about.  The  mind  can  bring  it 
about.  "  He  who  clearly  and  distinctly  understands  him- 
self and  his  emotions  loves  God,  and  so  much  the  more  in 
proportion  as  he  more  understands  himself  and  his 
emotions." 

Fine  slices  of  French  beans  fell  from  the  knife,  one  by 
one,  into  the  bowl  of  clear  water.  Spinoza's  thought  beat 
its  way  out  through  the  smell  of  steel,  the  clean  green  smell 
of  the  cut  beans,  the  crusty,  spicy  smell  of  the  apple  pie  you 
had  made.  "  He  who  loves  God  cannot  endeavour  that 
God  should  love  him  in  return." 

"  '  Shall  we  gather  at  the  river  — '  "  Catty  sang  as  she 
went  to  and  fro  between  the  kitchen  and  the  scullery.  Catty 
was  happy  now  that  Maggie  had  gone  and  she  had  only  you 
and  Jesus  with  her  in  the  kitchen.  Through  the  open  door 
you  could  hear  the  clack  of  the  hatchet  and  the  thud  on  the 
stone  flags  as  Roddy,  with  slow,  sorrowful  strokes,  chopped 
wood  in  the  backyard. 

"  Miss  Mary  —  "  Catty's  thick,  loving  voice  and  the 
jerk  of  her  black  eyes  warned  her. 

Mamma  looked  in  at  the  door. 

"  Put  that  book  away,"  she  said.    She  hated  the  two 


MATURITY  267 

brown  volumes  of  Elwes's  Spinoza  you  had  bought  for  your 
birthday.     "  The  dinner  will  be  ruined  if  you  read." 

"  It'll  be  ruined  if  I  don't  read." 

For  then  your  mind  raged  over  the  saucepans  and  the 
fragrant,  floury  pasteboard,  hungry  and  unfed.  It  couldn't 
bring  anything  about.  It  snatched  at  the  minutes  left  over 
from  Roddy  and  the  house  and  Mamma  and  the  piano. 
You  knew  what  every  day  would  be  like.  You  would  get 
up  early  to  practise.  When  the  cooking  and  the  housework 
was  done  Roddy  would  want  you.  You  would  play  tennis 
together  with  Mr.  Sutcliffe  and  Dorsy  Heron.  Or  you 
would  go  up  on  to  the  moors  and  comfort  Roddy  while  he 
talked  about  the  "  things  "  he  had  done  in  Canada  and  about 
getting  away  and  about  the  dog.  You  would  say  over  and 
over  again,  "  You  know  you  didn't  hang  him.  It  was  Jem's 
uncle.  He  was  a  bad  dog.  He  bit  the  sheep."  In  the 
winter  evenings  you  would  sew  or  play  or  read  aloud  to 
Mamma  and  Roddy,  and  Roddy  would  crouch  over  the 
fender,  with  his  hands  stretched  out  to  the  fire,  not  listening. 

But  Roddy  was  better.  The  wind  whipped  red  blood  into 
his  cheeks.  He  said  he  would  be  well  if  it  w^asn't  for  the 
bleating  of  the  sheep,  and  the  crying  of  the  peewits  and  the 
shouting  of  the  damned  villagers.  And  people  staring  at 
him.     He  would  be  well  if  he  could  get  away. 

Then  —  he  would  be  well  if  he  could  marry  Dorsy. 

So  the  first  year  passed.  And  the  second.  And  the  third 
year.  She  was  five  and  twenty.  She  thought:  "  I  shall  die 
before  I'm  fifty.     I've  lived  half  my  life  and  done  nothing." 


IX 

Old  Dr.  Kendal  was  dead.  He  had  had  nothing  more  to 
live  for.  He  had  beaten  Mr.  Peacock  of  Sarrack.  Miss 
Kendal  was  wearing  black  ribbons  in  her  cap  instead  of 
pink.     And  Maggie's  sister  was  dead  of  her  cancer. 

The  wall  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden  had  fallen  down  and 
Roddy  had  built  it  up  again. 

He  had  heaved  up  the  big  stones  and  packed  them  in 
mortar;  he  had  laid  them  true  by  the  plumb-line;  Blenk- 


268  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

iron's  brother,  the  stonemason,  couldn't  have  built  a  better 
wall. 

It  had  all  happened  in  the  week  when  she  was  ill  and  went 
to  stay  with  Aunt  Lavvy  at  Scarborough.  Yesterday  even- 
ing, when  she  got  home,  Roddy  had  come  in  out  of  the 
garden  to  meet  her.  He  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves;  glass  beads 
of  sweat  stood  out  on  his  forehead,  his  face  was  white  with 
excitement.  He  had  just  put  the  last  dab  of  mortar  to  the 
last  stone. 

In  the  blue  and  white  morning  Mary  and  her  mother 
stood  in  the  garden,  looking  at  the  wall.  In  its  setting  of 
clean  white  cement,  Roddy's  bit  showed  like  the  map  of 
South  Africa.  They  were  waiting  for  him  to  come  down 
to  breakfast. 

"  I  must  say,"  Mamma  said,  "  he's  earned  his  extra  half- 
hour  in  bed." 

She  was  pleased  because  Roddy  had  built  the  wall  up  and 
because  he  was  well  again. 

They  had  turned.  They  were  walking  on  the  flagged 
path  by  the  flower-border  under  the  house.  Mamma  walked 
slowly,  with  meditative  pauses,  and  bright,  sidelong  glances 
for  her  flowers. 

"  If  only,"  she  said,  "  he  could  work  without  trampling 
the  flowers  down." 

The  sun  was  shining  on  the  flagged  path.  Mamma  was 
stooping  over  the  bed;  she  had  lifted  the  stalk  of  the 
daffodil  up  out  of  the  sunk  print  of  Roddy's  boot.  Catty 
was  coming  down  the  house  passage  to  the  side  door.  Her 
mouth  was  open.  Her  eyes  stared  above  her  high,  sallow 
cheeks.  She  stood  on  the  doorstep,  saying  something  in  a 
husky  voice. 

"  Miss  Mary  —  will  you  go  upstairs  to  Master  Roddy?  I 
think  there's  something  the  matter  with  him.    I  think  —  " 

Upstairs,  in  his  narrow  iron  bed,  Roddy  lay  on  his  back, 
his  lips  parted,  his  eyes  —  white  slits  under  half-open  lids  — 
turned  up  to  the  ceiling.  His  arms  were  squared  stiffly 
above  his  chest  as  they  had  pushed  back  the  bedclothes. 
The  hands  had  been  clenched  and  unclenched;  the  fingers 
still  curled  in  towards  the  palms.  His  face  had  a  look  of 
innocence  and  candour. 


MATURITY  269 

Catty's  thick,  wet  voice  soaked  through  liis  mother's  cry- 
ing. "  Miss  Mary  —  he  went  in  his  first  sleep.  His  hair's 
as  smooth  as  smooth." 


She  was  alone  with  Dan  in  the  funeral  carriage. 

Her  heart  heaved  and  dragged  with  the  grinding  of  the 
brakes  on  the  hill;  the  brake  of  the  hearse  going  in  front; 
the  brake  of  their  carriage;  the  brake  of  the  one  that  fol- 
lowed with  Dr.  Charles  in  it. 

When  they  left  off  she  could  hear  Dan  crying.  He  had 
begun  as  soon  as  he  got  into  the  carriage. 

She  tried  to  think  of  Dr.  Charles,  sitting  all  by  himself 
in  the  back  carriage,  calm  and  comfortable  among  the 
wreaths.  But  she  couldn't.  She  couldn't  think  of  anything 
but  Dan  and  the  black  hearse  in  front  of  them.  She  could 
see  it  when  the  road  turned  to  the  right;  when  she  shut  her 
eyes  she  could  see  the  yellow  cofiin  inside  it,  heaped  with 
white  flowers;  and  Roddy  lying  deep  down  in  the  coffin. 
The  sides  were  made  high  to  cover  his  arms,  squared  over 
his  chest  as  if  he  had  been  beating  something  off.  She  could 
see  Roddy's  arms  beating  off  his  thoughts,  and  under  the 
fine  hair  Roddy's  face,  innocent  and  candid. 

Dr.  Charles  said  it  wasn't  that.  He  had  just  raised  them 
in  surprise.    A  sort  of  surprise.     He  hadn't  suffered. 

Dan's  dark  head  was  bowed  forward,  just  above  the  level 
of  her  knees.  His  deep,  hot  eyes  were  inflamed  with  grief; 
they  kept  on  blinking,  gushing  out  tears  over  red  lids.  He 
cried  like  a  child,  with  loud  sobs  and  hiccoughs  that  shook 
him.  Her  eyes  were  dry ;  burning  dry ;  the  lids  choked  'with 
something  that  felt  like  hot  sand,  and  hurt. 

(If  only  the  carriage  didn't  smell  of  brandy.  That  was 
the  driver.     He  must  have  sat  in  it  while  he  waited.) 

Dan  left  off  crying  and  sat  up  suddenly. 

"  What's  that  hat  doing  there?  " 

He  had  taken  off  his  tall  hat  as  he  was  getting  into  the 
carriage  and  laid  it  on  the  empty  seat.  He  pointed  at  the 
hat. 

"  That  isn't  my  hat,"  he  said. 


270  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  Yes,  Dank.     You  put  it  there  yourself." 

"  I  didn't.     My  hat  hasn't  got  a  beastly  black  band  on  it." 

He  rose  violently,  knocking  his  head  against  the  carriage 
roof. 

"  Here  —  I  must  get  out  of  this." 

He  tugged  at  the  window-strap,  hanging  on  to  it  and 
swaying  as  he  tugged.     She  dragged  him  back  into  his  seat. 

"  Sit  down  and  keep  quiet." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  wrist  and  held  it.  Down  the 
road  the  bell  of  Renton  Church  began  tolling.  He  turned 
and  looked  at  her  unsteadily,  his  dark  eyes  showing  blood- 
shot as  they  swerved. 

"Mary  —  is  Roddy  really  dead?" 

A  warm  steam  of  brandy  came  and  went  with  his 
breathing. 

"  Yes.    That's  why  you  must  keep  quiet." 

Mr.  Rollitt  was  standing  at  the  open  gate  of  the  church- 
yard. He  was  saying  something  that  she  didn't  hear.  Then 
he  swung  round  solemnly.  She  saw  the  flash  of  his  scarlet 
hood.    Then  the  coffin. 

She  began  to  walk  behind  it,  between  two  rows  of  vil- 
lagers, between  Dorsy  Heron  and  Mr.  Sutcliffe.  She  went, 
holding  Dan  tight,  pulling  him  closer  when  he  lurched,  and 
carrying  his  tall  hat  in  her  hand. 

Close  before  her  face  the  head  of  Roddy's  coflSn  swayed 
and  swung  as  the  bearers  staggered. 


XI 

"  Roddy  ought  never  to  have  gone  to  Canada." 

Her  mother  had  turned  again,  shaking  the  big  bed.  They 
would  sleep  together  for  three  nights;  then  Aunt  Bella 
would  come,  as  she  came  when  Papa  died. 

"  But  your  Uncle  Victor  would  have  his  own  way." 

"  He  didn't  know." 

She  thought:  "  But  I  knew.  I  knew  and  I  let  him  go. 
Why  did  I?  " 

It  seemed  to  her  that  it  was  because,  deep  down  inside 
her,  she  had  wanted  him  to  go.    Deep  down  inside  her  she 


MATURITY  271 

had  been  afraid  of  the  unhappiness  that  would  come  through 
Roddy. 

"  And  I  don't  think,"  her  mother  said  presently,  "  it  could 
have  been  very  good  for  him,  building  tliat  wall." 

"  You  didn't  know." 

She  thought:  "  I'd  have  known.  If  I'd  been  here  it 
wouldn't  have  happened.  I  wouldn't  have  let  him.  I'd  no 
business  to  go  away  and  leave  him.     I  might  have  known." 

"  Lord,  if  Thou  hadst  been  here  our  brother  had  not 
died." 

The  yellow  coffin  swayed  before  her  eyes,  heaped  with  the 
white  flowers.  Yellow  and  white.  Roddy's  dog.  His  yel- 
low dog  with  a  white  breast  and  white  paws.  And  a  rope 
round  his  neck.     Roddy  thought  he  had  hanged  him. 

At  seven  she  got  up  and  dressed  and  dusted  the  drawing- 
room.  She  dusted  everything  very  carefully,  especially  the 
piano.     She  would  never  want  to  play  on  it  again. 

The  side  door  stood  open.  She  went  out.  In  the  bed  by 
the  flagged  path  she  saw  the  sunk  print  of  Roddy's  foot  and 
the  dead  daffodil  stalk  lying  in  it.    Mamma  had  been  angrj\ 

She  had  forgotten  that.  She  had  forgotten  everything 
that  happened  in  the  minutes  before  Catty  had  come  down 
the  passage. 

She  filled  in  the  footprint  and  stroked  the  earth  smooth 
above  it,  lest  Mamma  should  see  it  and  remember. 

XXVII 

I 

PoTNiA,  Potnia  Nux  — 

Lady,  our  Lady, 

Night, 

You  who  give  sleep  to  men,  to  men  labouring  and  suffering — 

Out  of  the  darkness,  come. 

Come  ivith  your  ivings,  come  down 

On  the  house  oj  Agamemnon. 

Time  stretched  out  behind  and  before  you,  time  to  read, 
to  make  music,  to  make  poems  in,  to  translate  Euripides, 
while   Mamma   looked    after   her   flowers   in  the    garden; 


272  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mamrtia,  sowing  and  planting  and  weeding  with  a  fixed, 
vehement  passion.  You  could  hear  Catty  and  little  Alice, 
Maggie's  niece,  singing  against  each  other  in  the  kitchen  as 
Alice  helped  Catty  with  her  work.  You  needn't  have  been 
afraid.  You  would  never  have  anything  more  to  do  in  the 
house.    Roddy  wasn't  there. 

Agamemnon  —  that  was  where  you  broke  off  two  years 
ago.  He  didn't  keep  you  waiting  long  to  finish.  You 
needn't  have  been  afraid. 

Uncle  Victor's  letter  came  on  the  day  when  the  gentians 
flowered.  One  minute  Mamma  had  been  happy,  the  next 
she  was.  crying.  When  you  saw  her  with  the  letter  you 
knew.  Uncle  Victor  was  sending  Dan  home.  Dan  was  no 
good  at  the  office;  he  had  been  drinking  since  Roddy  died. 
Three  months. 

Mamma  was  saying  something  as  she  cried.  "  I  suppose 
he'll  be  here,  then,  all  his  life,  doing  nothing." 

II 

Mamma  had  given  Papa's  smoking-room  to  Dan.  She 
kept  on  going  in  and  out  of  it  to  see  if  he  was  there. 

"  When  you've  posted  the  letters  you  might  go  and  see 
what  Dan's  doing." 

Everybody  in  the  village  knew  about  Dan.  The  post- 
mistress looked  up  from  stamping  the  letters  to  say,  "  Your 
brother  was  here  a  minute  ago."  Mr.  Horn,  the  grocer, 
called  to  you  from  the  bench  at  the  fork  of  the  roads, 
"  Ef  yo're  lookin'  for  yore  broother,  he's  joost  gawn  oop 
daale." 

If  Mr.  Horn  had  looked  the  other  way  when  he  saw  you 
coming  you  would  have  known  that  Dan  was  in  the  Buck 
Hotel. 

The  white  sickle  of  the  road;  a  light  at  the  top  of  the 
sickle;  the  Aldersons'  house. 

A  man  was  crossing  from  the  moor-track  to  the  road.  He 
carried  a  stack  of  heather  on  his  shoulder:  Jem's  brother, 
Ned.  He  stopped  and  stared.  He  was  thicker  and  slower 
than  Jem;  darker  haired;  fuller  and  redder  in  the  face; 
be  looked  at  you  with  the  same  little,  kind,  screwed-up  eyes. 

"  Ef  yo're  lookin'  for  yore  broother,  'e's  in  t'  oose  long 


MATURITY  273 

o*  US.    Wull  yo  coom  in?    T'  missus  med  gev  yo  a  coop 
o'  tea." 

She  went  in.  There  was  dusk  in  the  kitchen,  with  a  grey 
light  in  the  square  of  tlie  window  and  a  red  light  in  the 
oblong  of  the  grate.  A  small  boy  with  a  toasting-fork  knelt 
by  the  hearth.  You  disentangled  a  smell  of.  stewed  tea  and 
browning  toast  from  thick,  deep  smells  of  peat  smoke  and 
the  sweat  drying  on  Ned's  shirt.  When  Farmer  Aldcrson 
got  up  you  saw  the  round  table,  the  coarse  blue-grey 
teacups  and  the  brown  glazed  teapot  on  a  brown  glazed 
cloth. 

Dan  sat  by  the  table.  Dumpling,  Ned's  three-year-old 
daughter,  sat  on  Dan's  knee;  you  could  see  her  scarlet 
cheeks  and  yellow  hair  above  the  grey  frieze  of  his  coat- 
sleeve.  His  mournful  black-and-white  face  stooped  to  her  in 
earnest,  respectful  attention.  He  was  taking  a  piece  of  but- 
terscotch out  of  the  silver  paper.  Dumpling  opened  her  wet, 
red  mouth. 

Rachel,  Ned's  wife,  watched  them,  her  lips  twisted  in  a 
fond,  wise  smile,  as  she  pressed  the  big  loaf  to  her  breast 
and  cut  thick  slices  of  bread-and-jam.  She  had  made  a 
place  for  you  beside  her. 

"  She  sengs  ersen  to  slape  wid  a  liT  song  she  maakes," 
Rachel  said.  "  Tha'll  seng  that  li'l'  song  for  Mester  Dan, 
wuntha?  " 

Dumpling  hid  her  face  and  sang.  You  had  to  stoop  to 
hear  the  cheeping  that  came  out  of  Dan's  shoulder. 

"  Aw,  dinny,  dinny  dy-Doomplin', 
Dy-Doomplin',  dy-Doomplin', 
Dinny,  dinny  dy-Doomplin', 
Dy-Doomplin'  daay." 

"  Ef  tha'll  seng  for  Mester  Dan,"  Farmer  Alderson  said, 
"  tha'llt  seng  for  tha  faather,  wuntha,  Doomplin'?  " 

"  Naw." 

"  For  Graffer  then?  " 

"  Naw." 

Dumpling  put  her  head  on  one  side,  butting  under  Dan's 
chin  like  a  cat.  Dan's  arm  drew  her  closer.  He  was  happy 
there,  in  the  Aldersons'  kitchen,  holding  Dumpling  on  his 


274  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

knee.  There  was  something  in  his  happiness  that  hurt  you 
as  Roddy's  unhappiness  had  hurt.  All  your  life  you  had 
never  really  known  Dan,  the  queer,  scowling  boy  who  didn't 
notice  you,  didn't  play  with  you  as  Roddy  played  or  care  for 
you  as  Mark  had  cared.  And  suddenly  you  knew  him; 
better  even  than  Roddy,  better  than  Mark. 


ni 

The  grey  byre  was  warm  with  the  bodies  of  the  cows  and 
their  grassy,  milky  breath.  Dan,  in  his  clean  white  shirt 
sleeves,  crouched  on  Ned's  milking  stool,  his  head  pressed 
to  the  cow's  curly  red  and  white  flank.  His  fingers  worked 
rhythmically  down  the  teat  and  the  milk  squirted  and  hissed 
and  pinged  against  the  pail.  Sometimes  the  cow  swung 
round  her  white  face  and  looked  at  Dan,  sometimes  she 
lashed  him  gently  with  her  tail.  Ned  leaned  against  the 
stall  post  and  watched. 

"  Thot's  t'  road,  thot's  t'  road.  Yo're  the  foorst  straanger 
she  a'  let  milk  'er.  She's  a  narvous  cow.  'Er  teats  is 
tander." 

When  the  milking  was  done  Dan  put  on  his  well-fitting 
coat  and  they  went  home  over  Karva  to  the  schoolhouse  lane. 

Dan  loved  the  things  that  Roddy  hated:  the  crying  of 
the  peewits,  the  bleating  of  the  sheep,  the  shouts  of  the 
village  children  when  they  saw  him  and  came  running  to  his 
coat  pockets  for  sweets.  He  liked  to  tramp  over  the  moors 
with  the  shepherds;  he  helped  them  with  the  dipping  and 
shearing  and  the  lambing. 

"  Dan,  you  ought  to  be  a  farmer." 

"  I  know,"  he  said,  "  that's  why  they  stuck  me  in  an 
office." 

IV 

"  If  the  killer  thinks  that  he  kills,  if  the  killed  thinks  that 
he  is  killed,  they  do  not  understand;  for  this  one  does  not 
kill,  nor  is  that  one  killed." 

Passion  Week,  two  years  after  Roddy's  death;  Roddy's 
death  the  measure  you  measured  time  by  still. 


MATURITY  275 

Mamma  looked  up  from  her  Bible;  she  looked  over  her 
glasses  with  eyes  tired  of  their  everlasting  reproach. 

"  What  have  you  got  there,  Mary?  " 

"  The  Upanishads  from  the  Sacred  Book  of  the  East." 

"  Tchtt!     It  was  that  Buddhism  the  other  day." 

"  Religion." 

"  Any  religion  except  your  own.  Or  else  it's  philosophy. 
You're  destroying  your  soul,  Mary.  I  shall  write  to  your 
Uncle  Victor  and  tell  him  to  ask  Mr.  Sutcliffe  not  to  send 
you  any  more  books  from  that  library." 

"  I'm  seven  and  twenty,  Mamma  ducky." 

"  The  more  shame  for  you  then,"  her  mother  said. 

The  clock  on  the  Congregational  Chapel  struck  six.  They 
put  down  their  books  and  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Dan  not  back?  "  Mamma  knew  perfectly  well  he  wasn't 
back. 

"  He  went  to  Reyburn." 

"T't!  "  Mamma's  chin  nodded  in  queer,  vexed  resigna- 
tion. She  folded  her  hands  on  her  knees  and  waited, 
listening. 

Sounds  of  wheels  and  of  hoofs  scraping  up  the  hill.  The 
Morfe  bus,  back  from  Reyburn.  Catty's  feet,  running  along 
the  passage.  The  front  door  opening,  then  shutting.  Dan 
hadn't  come  with  the  bus. 

"  Perhaps,"  Mamma  said,  "  Ned  Anderson'U  bring  him." 

"  Perhaps.  .  .  .  ('  There  is  one  eternal  thinker,  thinking 
non-eternal  thoughts,  who,  though  one,  fulfils  the  desires  of 
many,  .  .  .')  Mamma  —  why  won't  you  let  him  go  to 
Canada?  " 

"  It  was  Canada  that  killed  poor  Roddy." 

"  It  won't  kill  Dan.     He's  different." 

*'  And  what  good  would  he  be  there?  If  your  Uncle 
Victor  can't  keep  him,  who  will,  I  should  like  to  know?  " 

"  Jem  Alderson  would.  He'd  take  him  for  nothing.  He 
told  Ned  he  would.     To  make  up  for  Roddy." 

"Make  up!  He  thinks  that's  the  way  to  make  up!  I 
won't  have  Dan's  death  at  my  door.  I'd  rather  keep  him 
for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  How  about  Dan?  " 

"  Dan's  sate  here." 


276  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  He's  safe  on  the  moor  with  Alderson  looking  after  the 
sheep,  and  he's  safe  in  the  cowshed  milking  the  cows;  but 
he  isn't  safe  when  Ned  drives  into  Reyburn  market." 

"  Would  it  be  safer  in  Canada?  " 

"  Yes.  He'd  be  thirty  miles  from  the  nearest  pub.  He'd 
be  safer  here  if  you  didn't  give  him  money." 

"  The  boy  has  to  have  money  to  buy  clothes." 

"  I  could  buy  them." 

"  I  daresay !  You  can't  treat  a  man  of  thirty  as  if  he  was 
a  baby  of  three." 

She  thought.  "  No.  You  can  only  treat  a  woman.  .  .  . 
*  There  is  one  eternal  thinker  ' —  " 

A  knock  on  the  door. 

"  There,"  her  mother  said,  "  that's  Dan." 

Mary  went  to  the  door.  Ned  Alderson  stood  outside ;  he 
stood  slantways,  not  looking  at  her. 

"  Ah  tried  to  maake  yore  broother  coom  back  long  o'  us, 
but  'e  would  na." 

*'  Hadn't  I  better  go  and  meet  him?  " 

"  Naw.  Ah  would  na.  Ah  wouldn'  woorry ;  there's  shep- 
herds on  t'  road  wi'  t'  sheep.  Mebbe  'e'll  toorn  oop  long  o' 
they.    Dawn'  woorry  ef  tes  laate  like." 

He  went  away. 

They  waited,  listening  while  the  clock  struck  the  hours, 
seven;  eight;  nine.  At  ten  her  mother  and  the  servants 
went  to  bed.     She  sat  up,  and  waited,  reading. 

"...  My  son,  that  subtle  essence  which  you  do  not 
perceive  there,  of  that  very  essence  this  great  Nyagrodha 
tree  exists.  .  .  .  That  which  is  the  subtile  essence,  in  it  all 
that  exists  has  its  self.  It  is  the  True.  It  is  the  Self,  and 
thou,  0  Svetaketu,  art  it." 

Substance,  the  Thing-in-itself  —  You  were  It.  Dan  was 
It.  You  could  think  away  your  body,  Dan's  body.  One 
eternal  thinker,  thinking  non-eternal  thoughts.  Dreaming 
horrible  dreams.     Dan's  drunkenness.    Why? 

Eleven.  A  soft  scuffle.  The  scurry  of  sheep's  feet  on 
the  Green.  A  dog  barking.  The  shepherds  were  back  from 
Reyburn. 

Feet  shuffled  on  the  flagstone.  She  went  to  the  door. 
Dan  leaned  against  the  doorpost,  bent  forward  heavily ;  his 


MATURITY  277 

chin  dropped  to  his  chest.  Something  slimy  gleamed  on  hig 
shoulder  and  hip.  Wet  mud  of  the  ditch  he  had  fallen  in. 
She  stiffened  her  muscles  to  his  weight,  to  the  pull  and  push 
of  his  reeling  body. 

Roddy's  room.  With  one  lurch  he  reached  Roddy's  white 
bed  in  the  corner. 

She  looked  at  the  dressing-table.  A  strip  of  steel  flashed 
under  the  candlestick.  The  blue  end  of  a  matchbox  stuck  up 
out  of  the  saucer.  There  would  be  more  matches  in  Dan's 
coat  pocket.     She  took  away  the  matches  and  the  razor. 

Her  mother  stood  waiting  in  the  doorway  of  her  room, 
small  and  piteous  in  her  nightgown.  Her  eyes  glanced  off 
the  razor,  and  blinked. 

"  Is  Dan  all  right?  " 

"  Yes.    He  came  back  with  the  sheep." 


The  Hegcls  had  come:  The  Logik.  Three  volumes.  The 
bristling  Gothic  text  an  ambush  of  secret,  exciting,  formid- 
able things.  The  titles  flamed;  flags  of  strange  battles; 
signals  of  strange  ships ;  challenging,  enticing  to  the  danger- 
ous adventure. 

After  the  first  enchantment,  the  Buddhist  Suttas  and  the 
Upanishads  were  no  good.  Nor  yet  the  Vedanta.  You 
couldn't  keep  on  saying,  "  This  is  That,"  and  "  Thou  art  It," 
or  that  the  Self  is  the  dark  blue  bee  and  the  green  parrot 
with  red  eyes  and  the  thunder-cloud,  the  seasons  and  the 
seas.  It  was  too  easy,  too  sleepy,  like  lying  on  a  sofa  and 
dropping  laudanum,  slowly,  into  a  rotten,  aching  tooth. 
Your  teeth  were  sound  and  strong,  they  had  to  have  some- 
thing hard  to  bite  on.  You  wanted  to  think,  to  keep  on 
thinking.  Your  mind  wasn't  really  like  a  tooth;  it  was  like 
a  robust,  energetic  body,  happy  when  it  was  doing  difficult 
and  dangerous  things,  balancing  itself  on  heights,  lifting 
great  weights  of  thought,  following  the  long  march  into 
tliick,  smoky  battles. 

"  Being  and  Not-Being  are  the  same "  :  ironic  and 
superb  defiance.  And  then  commotion;  as  if  the  infinite 
stillness,  the  immovable  Substance,  had  got  up  and  begun 


278  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

moving  —  Rhythm  of  eternity:  the  same  for  ever:  for  ever 
different:  for  ever  the  same. 

Thought  was  the  Thing-in-itself. 

This  man  was  saying,  over  and  over  and  all  the  time 
what  you  had  wanted  Kant  to  say,  what  he  wouldn't  say, 
what  you  couldn't  squeeze  out  of  him,  however  you  turned 
and  twisted  him. 

You  jumped  to  where  the  name  "  Spinoza  "  glittered  like 
a  jewel  on  the  large  grey  page. 

Something  wanting.  You  knew  it,  and  you  were  afraid. 
You  loved  him.  You  didn't  want  him  to  be  found  out  and 
exposed,  like  Kant.  He  had  given  you  the  first  incompar- 
able thrill. 

Hegel.  Spinoza.  She  thought  of  Spinoza's  murky,  mys- 
terious face.  It  said,  "  I  live  in  you,  still,  as  he  will  never 
live.  You  will  never  love  that  old  German  man.  He  ran 
away  from  the  cholera.  He  bolstered  up  the  Trinity  with 
his  Triple  Dialectic,  to  keep  his  chair  at  Berlin.  /  refused 
their  bribes.  They  excommunicated  me.  You  remember? 
Cursed  be  Baruch  Spinoza  in  his  going  out  and  his  coming 
in." 

You  had  tried  to  turn  and  twist  Spinoza,  too ;  and  always 
he  had  refused  to  come  within  your  meaning.  His  Sub- 
stance, his  God  stood  still,  in  eternity.  He,  too;  before  the 
noisy,  rich,  exciting  Hegel,  he  drew  back  into  its  stillness; 
pure  and  cold,  a  little  sinister,  a  little  ironic.  And  you  felt 
a  pang  of  misgiving,  as  if,  after  all,  he  might  have  been 
right.     So  powerful  had  been  his  hold. 

Dan  looked  up.     "  What  are  you  reading,  Mary?  " 

"  Hegel." 

"  Haeckel  —  that's  the  chap  Vickers  talks  about," 

Vickers  —  she  remembered.  Dan  lived  with  Vickers  when 
he  left  Papa. 

"  He's  clever,"  Dan  said,  "  but  he's  an  awful  ass." 

"Who?    Haeckel?" 

"No.     Vickers." 

"  You  mean  he's  an  awful  ass,  but  he's  clever." 


MATURITY  279 


VI 

One  Friday  evening  an  unusual  smell  of  roast  chicken 
came  through  the  kitchen  door.  Mary  put  on  tlie  slender, 
long-tailed  white  gown  she  wore  when  she  dined  at  the 
Sutcliffes'. 

Dan's  friend,  Lindley  Vickers,  was  sitting  on  the  sofa, 
talking  to  Mamma.  When  she  came  in  he  left  off  talking 
and  looked  at  her  with  sudden  happy  eyes.  She  remembered 
Maurice  Jourdain's  disappointed  eyes,  and  Mark's.  Dan 
became  suddenly  very  polite  and  attentive. 

All  through  dinner  Mr.  Vickers  kept  on  turning  his  eyes 
away  from  Mamma  and  looking  at  her;  every  time  she 
looked  she  caught  him  looking.  His  dark  hair  sprang  in 
two  ridges  from  the  parting.  His  short,  high-bridged  nose 
seemed  to  be  looking  at  you,  too,  with  its  wide  nostrils,  alert. 
His  face  did  all  sorts  of  vivid,  interesting  things;  you  won- 
dered every  minute  whether  this  time  it  would  be  straight 
and  serious  or  crooked  and  gay,  whether  his  eyes  would  stay 
as  they  were,  black  crystals,  or  move  and  show  grey  rings, 
green  speckled. 

He  was  alive,  running  over  with  life;  no,  not  running 
over,  vibrating  with  it,  holding  it  in;  he  looked  as  if  he 
expected  something  delightful  to  happen,  and  waited,  excited, 
ready. 

He  began  talking,  about  Hegel.  "  '  Plus  qa  change,  plus 
c'est  la  meme  chose.'  " 

She  heard  herself  saying  something.  Dan  turned  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  sombre,  thoughtful  stare.  Mamma 
smiled,  and  nodded  her  chin  as  much  as  to  say  "  Did  you 
ever  hear  such  nonsense?  "  She  knew  that  was  the  way  to 
stop  you. 

Mr.  Vickers's  eyes  were  large  and  attentive.  When  you 
stopped  his  mouth  gave  such  a  sidelong  leap  of  surprise  and 
amusement  that  you  laughed.     Then  he  laughed. 

Dan  said,  "  What's  the  joke?  "  And  Mr.  Vickers  replied 
that  it  wasn't  a  joke. 

In  the  drawing-room  Mamma  said,  "  I  won't  have  any 
of  those  asides  between  you  and  Mr.  Vickers,  do  vou 
hear?  " 


280  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mary  thought  that  so  funny  that  she  laughed.  She  knew 
what  Mamma  was  thinking,  but  she  was  too  happy  to  care. 
Her  intelligence  had  found  its  mate. 

You  played,  and  at  the  first  sound  of  the  piano  he  came 
in  and  stood  by  you  and  listened. 

You  had  only  to  play  and  you  could  make  him  come  to 
you.  He  would  get  up  and  leave  Dan  in  the  smoking-room ; 
he  would  leave  Mamma  in  the  garden.  When  you  played 
the  soft  Schubert  hyipromptu  he  would  sit  near  you,  very 
quiet;  when  you  played  the  Appassionata  he  would  get  up 
and  stand  close  beside  you.  When  you  played  the  loud, 
joyful  Chopin  Polonaise  he  would  walk  up  and  down;  up 
and  down  the  room. 

Saturday  evening.  Sunday  evening.  (He  was  going  on 
Monday  very  early.) 

He  sang, 

"  '  Es  ist  bestimmt  in  Gottes  Rath 
Das  man  vom  liebsten  was  man  hat 
Muss  scheiden.' " 

Dan  called  out  from  his  corner,  "  Translate.  Let's  know 
what  it's  all  about." 

He  pounded  out  the  accompaniment  louder.  "  We  won't, 
will  we?"  He  jumped  up  suddenly.  "Play  the  Appas- 
sionata." 

She  played  and  he  talked. 

"  I  can't  play  if  you  talk." 

"  Yes,  you  can.     I  wish  I  hadn't  got  to  go  to-morrow." 

"  Have  you  "  (false  note)  "  got  to  go?  " 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  If  Dan  asked  you,  would  you  stop?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  slept  in  Papa's  room.  When  she  heard  his  door  shut 
she  went  to  Dan. 

"  Dan,  why  don't  you  ask  him  to  stay  longer?  " 

"  Because  I  don't  want  him  to." 

"  I  thought  he  was  your  friend." 

"  He  is  my  friend.     The  only  one  I've  got." 

"Then  — why ?" 

"  That's  why."    He  shut  the  door  on  her. 


MATURITY  281 

She  got  up  early.     Dan  was  alone  in  the  dining-room. 

He  said,  "  What  have  you  come  down  for?  " 

"  To  give  you  your  breakfasts." 

"  Don't  be  a  little  fool.     Go  back  to  your  room." 

Mr.  Vickers  had  come  in.  He  stood  by  the  doorway, 
looking  at  her  and  smiling.  "  Why  this  harsh  treatment?  " 
he  said.     He  had  heard  Dan. 

Now  and  then  he  smiled  again  at  Dan,  who  sat  sulking 
over  his  breakfast. 

Dan  went  with  him  to  Durlingham.  He  was  away  all 
night. 

Next  day,  at  dinner-time,  they  appeared  again  together. 
Mr.  Vickers  had  brought  Dan  back.  He  was  going  to  stay 
for  another  week.    At  the  Buck  Hotel. 


VII 

"  Es  ist  bcstimmt  in  Gottes  Rath."  He  had  no  business 
to  sing  it,  to  sing  it  like  that,  so  that  you  couldn't  get  the 
thing  out  of  your  head.  That  wouldn't  have  mattered  if  you 
could  have  got  his  voice  out  of  your  heart.  It  hung  there, 
clawing,  hurting.     She  resented  this  pain. 

'*  Das  man  vom  liebsten  was  man  hat,"  the  dearest  that 
we  have,  "  muss  schei-ei-eden,  muss  schei-ei-eden." 

Her  fingers  pressed  and  crept  over  the  keys,  in  guilty, 
shamed  silence ;  it  would  be  awful  if  he  heard  you  playing  it, 
if  Dan  heard  you  or  Mamma. 

You  had  only  to  play  and  you  could  make  him  come. 

Supposing  you  played  the  Schubert  Impromptu  —  She 
found  herself  playing  it. 

He  didn't  come.  He  wasn't  coming.  He  was  going  into 
Reyburn  with  Dan.  And  on  Monday  he  would  be  gone. 
This  time  he  would  really  go. 

When  you  left  off  playing  you  could  still  hear  him  singing 
in  your  head.  "  Das  man  vom  liebsten  was  man  hat." 
"  Es  ist  bestimmt  —  "  But  if  you  felt  like  that  about  it, 
then  — 

Her  hands  dropped  from  the  keys. 

It  wasn't  possible.  He  only  came  on  Friday  evening  last 
week.     This    was    Saturday    morning.     Seven    days.     It 


282  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

couldn't  happen  in  seven  days.  He  would  be  gone  on 
Monday  morning.     Not  ten  days. 

"I  can't  — I  don't." 

Something  crossing  the  window  pane  made  her  start  and 
turn.  Nannie  Learoyd's  face,  looking  in.  Naughty  Nannie. 
You  could  see  her  big  pink  cheeks  and  her  scarlet  mouth 
and  her  eyes  sliding  and  peering.  Poor  pretty,  naughty 
Nannie.  Nannie  smiled  when  she  met  you  on  the  Green, 
as  if  she  trusted  you  not  to  tell  how  you  saw  her  after  dark 
slinking  about  the  Back  Lane  waiting  for  young  Horn  to 
come  out  to  her. 

The  door  opened.  Nannie  slid  away.  It  was  only 
Mamma. 

"  Mary,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  you  would  remember  that 
Mr.  Vickers  has  come  to  see  Dan,  and  that  he  has  only  got 
two  days  more." 

'*  It's  all  right.     He's  going  into  Reyburn  with  him." 

"  I'm  sure,"  her  mother  said,  "  I  wish  he'd  stay  here." 

She  pottered  about  the  room,  taking  things  up  and  putting 
them  down  again.  Presently  Catty  came  for  her  and  she 
went  out. 

Mary  began  to  play  the  Sonata  Appassionata.  She 
thought:  "  I  don't  care  if  he  doesn't  come.  I  want  to  play 
it,  and  I  shall." 

He  came.  He  stood  close  beside  her  and  listened.  Once 
he  put  his  hand  on  her  arm.  "  Oh  no,"  he  said.  "  Not  like 
that." 

She  stood  up  and  faced  him.  "  Tell  me  the  truth,  shall 
I  ever  be  any  good?    Shall  I  ever  play?  " 

''  Do  you  really  want  the  truth?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do." 

Her  mind  fastened  itself  on  her  playing.  It  hid  and 
sheltered  itself  behind  her  playing. 

"  Let's  look  at  your  hands." 

She  gave  him  her  hands.  He  lifted  them;  he  felt  the 
small  bones  sliding  under  the  skin,  he  bent  back  the  padded 
tips,  the  joints  of  the  fingers. 

"  There's  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't  have  played 
magnificently,"  he  said. 

"  Only  I  don't.     I  never  have." 


MATURITY  283 

"  No,  you  never  have." 

He  came  closer;  she  didn't  know  whether  he  drew  her 
to  him  or  whether  he  came  closer.  A  queer,  delicious  feeling, 
a  new  feeling,  thrilled  through  her  body  to  her  mouth,  to 
her  finger-tips.  Her  head  swam  slightly.  She  kept  her  eyes 
open  by  an  effort. 

He  gave  her  back  her  hands.  She  remembered.  They 
had  been  talking  about  her  playing. 

"  I  knew,"  she  said,  "  it  was  bad  in  places." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  it's  bad  or  good.  It's  you.  The 
only  part  of  you  that  can  get  out.  You're  very  bad  in  places, 
but  vou  do  something  to  me  all  the  same." 

"  What  do  I  do?  " 

"  You  know  what  you  do." 

"  I  don't.     I  don't  really.     Tell  me." 

"  If  you  don't  know,  I  can't  tell  you  —  dear —  " 

He  said  it  so  thickly  that  she  was  not  sure  at  the  time 
whether  he  had  really  said  it.    She  remembered  afterwards. 

"  There's  Dan,"  she  whispered. 

He  swung  himself  off  from  her  and  made  himself  a  rigid 
figure  at  the  window.  Dan  stood  in  the  doorway.  He  was 
trying  to  took  as  if  she  wasn't  there. 

"  I  say,  aren't  you  coming  to  Reyburn?  " 

"  No,  I'm  not." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  I've  got  a  headache." 

"  What?  " 

"  Headache." 

Outside  on  the  flagstones  she  saw  Nannie  pass  again  and 
look  in. 

VIII 

An  hour  later  she  was  sitting  on  the  slope  under  the  hill 
road  of  Greffington  Edge.  He  lay  on  his  back  beside  her  in 
the  bracken.    Lindley  Vickers. 

Suddenly  he  pulled  himself  up  into  a  sitting  posture  like 
her  own.  She  was  then  aware  that  Mr.  Sutcliffe  had  gone 
up  the  road  behind  them ;  he  had  lifted  his  hat  and  passed 
her  without  speaking. 


284  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  What  docs  Sutcliffe  talk  to  you  about?  " 

"  Farming." 

"  And  what  do  you  do?  " 

"  Listen." 

Below  them,  across  the  dale,  they  could  see  the  square  of 
Morfe  on  its  platform. 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  in  that  place?  " 

"  Ten  years.     No;  eleven." 

"  Women,"  he  said,  "  are  wonderful.  I  can't  think  where 
you  come  from.  I  knew  your  father,  I  know  Dan  and  your 
mother,  and  Victor  Olivier  and  your  aunt  —  " 

"  Which  aunt?  " 

"The  Unitarian  lady;  and  I  knew  Mark  —  and  Rodney. 
They  don't  account  for  you." 

"  Does  anybody  account  for  anybody  else?  " 

"  Yes.    You  believe  in  heredity?  " 

"  I  don't  know  enough  about  it." 

"  You  should  read  Haeckel  —  The  History  of  Evolution, 
and  Herbert  Spencer  and  Ribot's  Heredity.  It  would  in- 
terest you.  .  .  .  No,  it  wouldn't.  It  wouldn't  interest  you 
a  bit." 

"  It  sounds  as  if  it  would  rather." 

"  It  w^ouldn't.  .  .  .  Look  here,  promise  me  you  won't 
think  about  it,  you'll  let  it  alone.     Promise  me." 

He  was  like  Jimmy  making  you  promise  not  to  hang  out 
of  top-storey  windows. 

"  No  good  making  promises." 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  there's  nothing  in  it.  ...  I  wish  I 
liadn't  said  that  about  your  playing.  I  only  wanted  to  see 
whether  you'd  mind  or  not." 

"  I  don't  mind.  What  does  it  matter?  When  I'm 
making  music  I  think  there's  nothing  but  music  in  all  the 
world;  when  I'm  doing  philosophy  I  think  there's  nothing 
but  philosophy  in  all  the  world;  when  I'm  writing  verses  I 
think  there's  nothing  but  writing  in  all  the  world;  and  when 
I'm  playing  tennis  I  think  there's  nothing  but  tennis  in  all 
the  world." 

"  I  see.  And  when  you  suffer  you  think  there's  nothing 
but  suffering  in  all  the  world." 

"  Yes." 


MATURITY  285 

"  And  when  —  and  when  —  " 

His  face  was  straight  and  serious  and  quiet.  His  eyes 
covered  her;  first  her  face,  then  her  breasts;  she  knew  he 
could  see  her  bodice  quiver  with  the  beating  of  her  heart. 
She  felt  afraid. 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  you'll  not  think;  you'll  know." 

She  thought:  "  He  didn't  say  it.  He  won't.  He  can't. 
It  isn't  possible." 

"  Hadn't  we  better  go?  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  Much  better,"  he  said. 

IX 

She  would  not  see  him  again  that  day.  Dan  was  going 
to  dine  with  him  at  the  Buck  Hotel. 

When  Dan  came  back  from  Reyburn  he  said  he  wouldn't 
go.  He  had  a  headache.  If  Vickers  could  have  a  headache, 
so  could  he.  He  sulked  all  evening  in  the  smoking-room  by 
himself;  but  towards  nine  o'clock  he  thought  better  of  it 
and  went  round,  he  said,  to  look  Vickers  up. 

Her  mother  yawned  over  her  book;  and  the  yawns  made 
her  impatient;  she  wanted  to  be  out  of  doors,  walking, 
instead  of  sitting  there  listening  to  Mamma. 

At  nine  o'clock  Mamma  gave  one  supreme  yawn  and 
dragged  herself  to  bed. 

She  went  out  through  the  orchard  into  the  Back  Lane. 
She  could  see  Nannie  Learoyd  sitting  on  the  stone  stairs  of 
Horn's  granary,  waiting  for  young  Horn  to  come  round  the 
corner  of  his  yard.  Perhaps  they  would  go  up  into  the 
granary  and  hide  under  the  straw.  She  turned  into  the  field 
track  to  the  schoolhouse  and  the  highway.  In  the  dark 
bottom  the  river  lay  like  a  broad,  white,  glittering  road. 

She  stopped  by  the  schoolhouse,  considering  whether  she 
would  go  up  to  the  moor  by  the  high  fields  and  come  back 
down  the  lane,  or  go  up  the  lane  and  come  back  down  the 
fields. 

"  Too  dark  to  find  the  gaps  if  I  come  back  by  the  fields." 
She  had  forgotten  the  hidden  moon. 

There  was  a  breaking  twilight  when  she  reached  the  lane. 


286  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

She  came  down  at  a  swinging  stride.  Her  feet  went  on  the 
grass  borders  without  a  sound. 

At  the  last  crook  of  the  lane  she  came  suddenly  on  a  man 
and  woman  standing  in  her  path  by  the  stone  wall.  It  would 
be  Nannie  Learoyd  and  young  Horn.  They  were  fixed  in 
one  block,  their  faces  tilted  backwards,  their  bodies  motion- 
less. The  woman's  arms  were  round  the  man's  neck,  his 
arms  round  her  waist.  There  was  something  about  the 
queer  back-tilted  faces  —  queer  and  ugly. 

As  she  came  on  she  saw  them  break  loose  from  each  other 
and  swing  apart:  Nannie  Learoyd  and  Lindley  Vickers. 


She  lay  awake  all  night.  Her  brain,  incapable  of  thought, 
kept  turning  round  and  round,  showing  her  on  an  endless 
rolling  screen  the  images  of  Lindley  and  Nannie  Learoyd, 
clinging  together,  loosening,  swinging  apart,  clinging  to- 
gether. When  she  came  down  on  Sunday  morning  breakfast 
was  over. 

Sunday  —  Sunday.  She  remembered.  Last  night  was 
Saturday  night.  Lindley  Vickers  was  coming  to  Sunday 
dinner  and  Sunday  supper.  She  would  have  to  get  away 
somewhere,  to  Dorsy  or  the  Sutcliffes.  She  didn't  want  to 
see  him  again.  She  wanted  to  forget  that  she  ever  had 
seen  him. 

Her  mother  and  Dan  had  shut  themselves  up  in  the 
smoking-room;  she  found  them  there,  talking.  As  she  came 
in  they  stopped  abruptly  and  looked  at  each  other.  Her 
mother  began  picking  at  the  pleats  in  her  gown  with  nervous, 
agitated  fingers.    Dan  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

"  Well,  Mary,  you'll  not  see  Mr.  Vickers  again.  He's 
just  told  Dan  he  isn't  coming." 

Then  he  knew  that  she  had  seen  him  in  the  lane  with 
Nannie. 

"  I  don't  want  to  see  him,"  she  said. 

"  It's  a  pity  you  didn't  think  of  that  before  you  put  us  in 
such  a  position." 

She  understood  Lindley;  but  she  wasn't  even  trying  to 
understand  her  mother.    The  vexed  face  and  picking  fingers 


MATURITY  287 

meant  nothing  to  her.  She  was  saying  to  herself,  "  I  can't 
tell  Mamma  I  saw  him  with  Nannie  in  the  lane.  I  oughtn't 
to  have  seen  him.  He  didn't  know  anybody  was  there.  He 
didn't  want  me  to  see  him.  I'd  be  a  perfect  beast  to  tell 
her." 

Her  mother  went  on:  "I  don't  know  what  to  do  with 
you,  Mary.  One  would  have  thought  my  only  daughter 
would  have  been  a  comfort  to  me,  but  I  declare  you've  given 
me  more  trouble  than  any  of  my  children." 

"  More  than  Dan?  " 

"  Dan  hadn't  a  chance.  He'd  have  been  different  if  your 
poor  father  hadn't  driven  him  out  of  the  house.  He'd  be 
different  now  if  your  Uncle  Victor  had  kept  him.  .  .  .  It's 
hard  for  poor  Dan  if  he  can't  bring  his  friends  to  the  house 
any  more  because  of  you." 

"  Because  of  me?  " 

''  Because  of  your  folly." 

She  understood.  Her  mother  believed  that  she  had  fright- 
ened Lindley  away.     She  was  thinking  of  Aunt  Charlotte. 

It  would  have  been  all  right  if  she  could  have  told  her 
about  Nannie;  then  Mamma  would  have  seen  why  Lindley 
couldn't  come. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  thought.  ''  She  may  think  what  she 
likes.     I  can't  tell  her." 


XI 

Lindley  Vickers  had  gone.  Nothing  was  left  of  him  but 
Mamma's  silence  and  Dan's,  and  Nannie's  flush  as  she  slunk 
by  and  her  obscene  smirk  of  satisfaction. 

Then  Nannie  forgot  him.  As  if  nothing  had  happened 
she  hung  about  Horn's  yard  and  the  Back  Lane,  waiting  for 
young  Horn.  She  smiled  her  trusting  smile  again.  As  long 
as  you  lived  in  Morfe  you  would  remember. 

Mary  didn't  blame  hor  mother  and  Dan  for  their  awful 
attitude.  She  couldn't  blink  the  fact  that  she  had  begun  to 
care  for  a  man  who  was  no  better  than  young  Horii,  who 
had  shown  her  that  he  didn't  care  for  her  by  going  to 
Nannie.  If  he  could  go  to  Nannie  he  was  no  better  than 
young  Horn. 


288  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

She  thought  of  Lindley's  communion  with  Nannie  as  a 
part  of  him,  essential,  enduring.  Beside  it,  her  own  com- 
munion with  him  was  not  quite  real.  She  remembered  his 
singing;  she  remembered  playing  to  him  and  sitting  beside 
him  on  the  bracken  as  you  remember  things  that  have  hap- 
pened to  you  a  long  time  ago  (if  they  had  really  happened). 
She  remembered  phrases  broken  from  their  context  (if  they 
had  ever  had  a  context) :  "  Das  man  vom  liebsten  was  man 
hat.  ..."  "If  you  don't  know  I  can't  tell  you  —  Dear." 
.  .  .  ''  And  when  —  when  —  Then  you  won't  think,  you'll 
know." 

She  said  to  herself,  ''  I  must  have  been  mad.  It  couldn't 
have  happened.     I  must  have  made  it  up." 

But,  if  you  made  up  things  like  that  you  were  mad.  It 
was  what  Aunt  Charlotte  had  done.  She  had  lived  all  her 
life  in  a  dream  of  loving  and  being  loved,  a  dream  that  began 
wuth  clergymen  and  ended  with  the  piano-tuner  and  the  man 
who  did  the  clocks.  Mamma  and  Dan  knew  it.  Uncle 
Victor  knew  it  and  he  had  been  afraid.  Maurice  Jourdain 
knew  it  and  he  had  been  afraid.  Perhaps  Lindley  Vickers 
knew  it,  too. 

There  must  be  something  in  heredity.  She  thought:  "  If 
there  is  I'd  rather  face  it.     It's  cowardly  not  to." 

Lindley  Vickers  had  told  her  what  to  read.  Herbert 
Spencer  she  knew.  Haeckel  and  Ribot  were  in  the  London 
Library  Catalogue  at  Grefiington  Hall.  And  Maudsley:  she 
had  seen  the  name  somewhere.  It  was  perhaps  lucky  that 
Mr.  Sutcliffe  had  gone  abroad  early  this  year;  for  he  had 
begun  to  follow  her  through  Balzac  and  Flaubert  and 
Maupassant,  since  when  he  had  sometimes  interfered  with 
her  selection. 

The  books  came  down  in  two  days:  Herbert  Spencer's 
First  Principles,  the  Principles  of  Biology,  the  Principles  of 
Psychology ;  Haeckel's  History  of  Evolution;  Maudsley's 
Body  and  Mind,  Physiology  and  Pathology  of  Mind,  Re- 
sponsibility in  Mental  Disease;  and  Ribot's  Heredity.  Your 
instinct  told  you  to  read  them  in  that  order,  controlling 
personal  curiosity. 

For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  understood  what  Spinoza 
meant  by  "  the  intellectual  love  of  God."    She  saw  how  all 


MATURITY  289 

things  work  together  for  good  to  those  who,  in  Spinoza's 
sense,  love  God.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  Aunt  Charlotte  and 
Lindley  Vickers  she  might  have  died  without  knowing  any- 
thing about  the  exquisite  movements  and  connections  of  the 
live  world.  She  had  spent  most  of  her  time  in  the  passionate 
pursuit  of  things  under  the  form  of  eternity,  regardless  of 
their  actual  behaviour  in  time.  She  had  kept  on  for  fifteen 
years  trying  to  find  out  the  reality  —  if  there  was  any 
reality  —  that  hid  behind  appearances,  piggishly  obtuse  to 
the  interest  of  appearances  themselves.  She  had  cared  for 
nothing  in  them  but  their  beauty,  and  its  exciting  play  on 
her  emotions.  When  life  brought  ugly  things  before  her  she 
faced  them  with  a  show  of  courage,  but  inwardly  she  was 
sick  with  fear. 

For  the  first  time  she  saw  the  ugliest  facts  take  on  en- 
chantment, a  secret  and  terrible  enchantment.  Dr.  Mit- 
chell's ape-faced  idiot;  Dr.  Browne's  girl  with  the  goose-face 
and  goose-neck,  billing  her  shoulders  like  a  bird. 

There  was  something  in  Heredity.  But  the  sheer  interest 
of  it  made  you  forget  about  Papa  and  Mamma  and  Aunt 
Charlotte;  it  kept  you  from  thinking  about  yourself.  You 
could  see  why  Ribot  was  so  excited  about  his  laws  of 
Heredity :  "  They  it  is  that  are  real.  ..."  "To  know  a 
fact  thoroughly  is  to  know  the  quality  and  quantity  of  the 
laws  that  compose  it  .  .  .  facts  are  but  appearances,  laws 
the  reality." 

There  was  Darwin's  Origin  of  Species.  According  to 
Darwin,  it  didn't  seem  likely  that  anything  so  useless  as 
insanity  could  be  inherited  at  all;  according  to  Maudsley 
and  Ribot,  it  seemed  even  less  likely  that  sanity  could  sur- 
vive. To  be  sure,  after  many  generations,  insanity  was 
stamped  out;  but  not  before  it  had  run  its  course  through 
imbecility  to  idiocy,  infecting  more  generations  as  it  went. 

Maudsley  was  solemn  and  exalted  in  his  desire  that  there 
should  be  no  mistake  about  it.  "  There  is  a  destiny  made 
for  a  man  by  his  ancestors,  and  no  one  can  elude,  were  he 
able  to  attempt  it,  the  tyranny  of  his  organisation." 

You  had  been  wrong  all  the  time.  You  had  thought  of 
your  family.  Papa  and  Mamma,  perhaps  Grandpapa  and 
Grandmamma,  as  powerful,  but  independent  and  separate 


290  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

entities,  in  themselves  sacred  and  inviolable,  working  against 
you  from  the  outside:  either  ^\-ith  open  or  secret  and  in- 
scrutable hostility,  hindering,  thwarting,  crushing  you  down. 
But  always  from  the  outside.  You  had  thought  of  yourself 
as  a  somewhat  less  powerful,  but  still  independent  and 
separate  entity,  a  sacred,  inviolable  self,  struggling  against 
them  for  completer  freedom  and  detachment.  Crushed 
down,  but  always  getting  up  and  going  on  again ;  fighting  a 
more  and  more  successful  battle  for  your  own ;  beating  them 
in  the  end.  But  it  was  not  so.  There  were  no  independent, 
separate  entities,  no  sacred,  inviolable  selves.  They  were 
one  immense  organism  and  you  were  part  of  it;  you  were 
nothing  that  they  had  not  been  before  you.  It  was  no 
good  struggling.  You  were  caught  in  the  net;  you  couldn't 
get  out. 

And  so  were  they.  Mamma  and  Papa  were  no  more  in- 
dependent and  separate  than  you  were.  Dan  had  gone  like 
Papa,  but  Papa  had  gone  like  Grandpapa  and  Grandmamma 
Olivier.  Nobody  ever  said  anything  about  Grandpapa 
Olivier;  so  perhaps  there  had  been  something  queer  about 
him.  Anyhow,  Papa  couldn't  help  drinking  any  more  than 
Mamma  could  help  being  sweet  and  gentle ;  they  hadn't  had 
a  choice  or  a  chance. 

How  senseless  you  had  been  with  your  old  angers  and 
resentments.  Now  that  you  understood,  you  could  never 
feel  anger  or  resentment  any  more.  As  long  as  you  lived 
you  could  never  feel  anything  but  love  for  them  and  com- 
passion. Mamma,  Papa  and  Aunt  Charlotte,  Dan  and 
Roddy,  they  were  caught  in  the  net.     They  couldn't  get  out. 

Dan  and  Roddy —  But  Mark  had  got  out.  Why  not 
you? 

They  were  not  all  alike.  Papa  and  Uncle  Victor  were 
different;  and  Aunt  Charlotte  and  Aunt  Lavvy.  Papa  had 
married  and  handed  it  on;  he  hadn't  cared.  Uncle  Victor 
hadn't  married ;  he  had  cared  too  much ;  he  had  been  afraid. 

And  Maurice  Jourdain  and  Lindley  Vickers  had  been 
afraid;  everybody  who  knew  about  Aunt  Charlotte  would 
be  afraid,  and  if  they  didn't  know  you  would  have  to  tell 
them,  supposing  — 

You  would  be  like  Aimt  Lavvy.    You  would  live  in  Morfe 


MATURITY  291 

with  Mamma  for  years  and  years  as  Aunt  Lavvy  had  lived 
with  Grandmamma.  First  you  would  be  like  Dorsy  Heron; 
then  like  Louisa  Wright;  then  like  Aunt  Lavvy. 

No;  when  you  were  forty-five  you  would  go  like  Aunt 
Charlotte. 


xri 

Anyhow,  she  had  filled  in  the  time  between  October  and 
March  when  the  Sutcliffes  came  back. 

If  she  could  talk  to  somebody  about  it —  But  you 
couldn't  talk  to  Mamma;  she  would  only  pretend  that  slie 
hadn't  been  thinking  about  Aunt  Charlotte  at  all.  If  Mark 
had  been  there  —  But  Mark  wasn't  there,  and  Dan  would 
only  call  you  a  little  fool.  Aunt  Lavvy?  She  would  tell 
you  to  love  God.     Even  Aunt  Charlotte  could  tell  you  that. 

She  could  see  Aunt  Charlotte  sitting  up  in  the  big  white 
bed  and  saying  "  Love  God  and  you'll  be  happy,"  as  she 
scribbled  letters  to  Mr.  Marriott  and  hid  them  under  the 
bedclothes. 

Uncle  Victor?    Uncle  Victor  was  afraid  himself. 

Dr.  Charles —  He  looked  at  you  as  he  used  to  look  at 
Roddy.  Perhaps  he  knew  about  Aunt  Charlotte  and  won- 
dered whether  you  would  go  like  her.  Or,  if  he  didn't  won- 
der, he  would  only  give  you  the  iron  pills  and  arsenic  he 
gave  to  Dorsy. 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe?  You  couldn't  tell  a  thing  like  that  to  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe.  She  wouldn't  know  what  you  were  talking  about; 
or  if  she  did  know  she  would  gather  herself  up,  spiritually, 
in  her  shawl,  and  trail  away. 

Mr.  Sutcliffe  —  He  would  know.  If  you  could  tell  him. 
You  might  take  back  Maudsley  and  Ribot  and  ask  him  if  he 
knew  anything  about  heredity,  and  what  he  thought  of  it. 

She  went  to  him  one  Wednesday  afternoon.  He  was 
always  at  home  on  Wednesday  afternoons.  She  knew  how 
it  would  be.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  would  be  shut  up  in  the  dining- 
room  with  the  sewing-party.  You  would  go  in.  You  would 
knock  at  the  library  door.  He  would  be  there  by  himself, 
in  the  big  arm-chair,  smoking  and  reading;  the  small  arm- 
chair would  be  waiting  for  you  on  the  other  side  of  the 


292  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

fireplace.  He  would  be  looking  rather  old  and  tired,  and 
when  he  saw  you  he  would  jump  up  and  pull  himself 
together  and  be  young  again. 

The  librar}^  door  closed  softly.  She  was  in  the  room 
before  he  saw  her. 

He  was  older  and  more  tired  than  you  could  have  believed. 
He  stooped  in  his  chair;  his  long  hands  rested  on  his  knees, 
slackly,  as  they  had  dropped  there.  Grey  streaks  in  the 
curly  lock  of  hair  that  would  fall  forward  and  be  a  whisker. 

His  mouth  had  tightened  and  hardened.  It  held  out;  it 
refused  to  become  old  and  tired. 

"  It's  Mary,"  she  said. 

"  My  dear  —  " 

He  dragged  himself  to  his  feet,  making  his  body  very 
straight  and  stiff.  His  eyes  glistened ;  but  they  didn't  smile. 
Only  his  eyelids  and  his  mouth  smiled.  His  eyes  were  dif- 
ferent, their  blue  was  shrunk  and  flattened  and  drawn  back 
behind  the  lense. 

When  he  moved,  pushing  forward  the  small  arm-chair, 
she  saw  how  lean  and  stiff  he  was. 

"  I've  been  ill,"  he  said. 

"Oh  —  !" 

"  I'm  all  right  now." 

*'  No.    You  ouglitn't  to  have  come  back  from  Agaye." 

"  1  never  do  what  I  ought,  Mary." 

She  remembered  how  beautiful  and  strong  he  used  to  be, 
when  he  danced  and  when  he  played  tennis,  and  when  he 
walked  up  and  down  the  hills.  His  beauty  and  his  strength 
had  never  moved  her  to  anything  but  a  happy,  tranquil 
admiration.  She  remembered  how  she  had  seen  Maurice 
Jourdain  tired  and  old  (at  thirty-three),  and  how  she  had 
been  afraid  to  look  at  him.  She  wondered,  **  Was  that  my 
fault,  or  his?  If  I'd  cared  should  I  have  minded?  If  I 
cared  for  Mr.  Sutcliffe  I  wouldn't  mind  his  growing  tired 
and  old.    The  tireder  and  older  he  was  the  more  I'd  care." 

Somehow  you  couldn't  imagine  Lindley  Vickers  growing 
old  and  tired. 

She  gave  him  back  the  books:  Ribot's  Heredity  and 
Maudsley's  Physiology  and  Pathology  of  Mind.  He  held 
them  in  his  long,  thin  hands,  reading  the  titles.    His  strange 


MATURITY  293 

eyes  looked  at  her  over  the  tops  of  the  bindings.    He  smiled. 

"  When  did  vou  order  these,  Mary?  " 

"  In  October.^" 

"  That's  the  sort  of  thing  you  do  when  I'm  away,  is  it?  " 

"  Yes  —  I'm  afraid  you  won't  care  for  them  very  much." 

He  still  stood  up,  examining  the  books.  He  was  dipping 
into  Maudsley  now  and  reading  him. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  read  this  horrible  stuff?  " 

"  Every  word  of  it.     I  had  to." 

"  You  had  to?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  know  about  heredity." 

"  And  insanity?  " 

"  That's  part  of  it.  I  wanted  to  see  if  there  was  anything 
in  it.     Heredity,  I  mean.     Do  you  think  there  is?  " 

She  kept  her  eyes  on  him.     He  was  still  smiling. 

"  My  dear  child,  you  know  as  much  as  I  do.  Why  are 
you  worrying  your  poor  little  head  about  madness?  " 

"  Because  I  can't  help  thinking  I  may  go  mad." 

"  I  should  think  the  same  if  I  read  Maudsley.  I  shouldn't 
be  quite  sure  whether  I  was  a  general  paralytic  or  an  epi- 
leptic homicide." 

"  You  see  —  I'm  not  afraid  because  I've  been  reading  him; 
I've  been  reading  him  because  I  was  afraid.  Not  even 
afraid,  exactly.  As  a  matter  of  fact  while  you're  reading 
about  it  you're  so  interested  that  you  forget  about  yourself. 
It's  only  when  you've  finished  that  you  wonder." 

"  What  makes  you  wonder?  " 

He  threw  Maudsley  aside  and  sat  down  in  the  big  arm- 
chair. 

"  That's  just  what  I  don't  think  I  can  tell  you." 

"  You  used  to  tell  me  things,  Mary.  I  remember  a  little 
girl  with  short  hair  who  asked  me  whether  cutting  off  her 
hair  would  make  me  stop  caring  for  her." 

"  Not  you  caring  for  me." 

"  Precisely.    So,  if  you  can't  tell  me  who  can  you  tell?  " 

"  Nobody." 

"  Come,  then.  ...  Is  it  because  of  your  father?  Or 
Dan?  " 

She  thought:  "  After  all,  I  can  tell  him." 

"  No.    Not  exactly.    But  it's  somebody.    One  of  Papa'a 


294  MARY    OLIVIER:     A    LIFE 

sisters  —  Aunt  Charlotte.  You  see,  Mamma  seems  to  think 
I'm  rather  like  her." 

"  Does  Aunt  Charlotte  read  Kant  and  Hegel  and  Schopen- 
hauer, to  find  out  whether  the  Thing-in-itself  is  mind  or 
matter?  Docs  she  read  Maudsley  and  Ribot  to  find  out 
what's  the  matter  with  her  mind?  " 

"  I  don't  think  she  ever  read  anything." 

"  What  did  she  do?  " 

"  Well  —  she  doesn't  seem  to  have  done  much  but  fall  in 
love  with  people." 

''  She'd  have  been  a  very  abnormal  lady  if  she'd  never 
fallen  in  love  at  all,  Mary." 

''  Yes ;  but  then  she  used  to  think  people  were  in  love  with 
her  when  they  weren't." 

"  How  old  \s  Aunt  Charlotte?  " 

"  She  must  be  ages  over  fifty  now." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  you're  just  twenty-eight,  and  I  don't 
think  you've  been  in  love  yet." 

"  That's  it.     I  have." 

"  No.  You've  only  thought  you  were.  Once?  Twice, 
perhaps?  You  may  have  been  very  near  it — for  ten  min- 
utes. But  a  man  might  be  in  love  with  you  for  ten  years, 
and  you  wouldn't  be  a  bit  the  wiser,  if  he  held  his  tongue 
about  it.  .  .  .  No.  People  don't  go  off  their  heads  because 
their  aunts  do,  or  we  should  all  of  us  be  mad.  There's  hardly 
a  family  that  hasn't  got  somebody  with  a  tile  loose." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  there's  anything  in  it?  " 

"  I  don't  think  there's  anything  in  it  in  your  case.  Any- 
thing at  all." 

"  I'm  glad  I  told  you." 

She  thought:  "  It  isn't  so  bad.  Whatever  happens  he'll 
be  here." 

XIII 

The  sewing-party  had  broken  up.  She  could  see  them 
going  before  her  on  the  road,  by  the  garden  wall,  by  the  row 
of  nine  ash-trees  in  the  field,  round  the  curve  and  over  Morfe 
Bridge. 

Bobbing  shoulders,  craning  necks,  stiff,  nodding  heads  in 
funny  hats,  turning  to  each  other. 


MATURITY  295 

When  she  got  home  she  found  Mrs.  Waugh,  and  Miss 
Frewin  in  the  drawing-room  with  Mamma.  Tiiey  had 
brought  her  the  news. 

The  Sutcliffes  were  going.  They  were  trying  to  let  Gref- 
fington  HalL  The  agent,  Mr.  Oldshaw,  had  told  Mr.  Horn. 
Mr.  Frank,  the  Major,  would  be  back  from  India  in  April. 
He  was  going  to  be  married.  He  would  live  in  tlie  London 
house  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  would  live  abroad. 

Mamma  said,  "  If  their  son's  coming  back  they've  chosen 
a  queer  time  to  go  away." 

XIV 

It  couldn't  be  true. 

You  knew  it  when  you  dined  with  them,  when  you  saw  the 
tranquil  Regency  faces  looking  at  you  from  above  the  long 
row  of  Sheraton  chairs,  the  pretty  Gainsborough  lady  smiling 
from  her  place  above  the  sideboard. 

As  you  sat  drinking  coffee  out  of  the  dark  blue  coffee  cups 
with  gold  linings  you  knew  it  couldn't  be  true.  You  were 
reassured  by  the  pattern  of  the  chintzes  —  pink  roses  and 
green  leaves  on  a  pearl-grey  ground  —  by  the  crystal  chains 
and  pendants  of  the  chandelier,  by  the  round  black  mirror 
sunk  deep  in  the  bowl  of  its  gilt  frame. 

They  couldn't  go;  for  if  they  went,  the  quiet,  gentle  life 
of  these  things  would  be  gone.  The  room  had  no  soul  apart 
from  the  two  utterly  beloved  figures  that  sat  there,  each  in 
its  own  chintz-covered  chair. 

"  It  isn't  true,"  she  said,  ''  that  you're  going?  " 

She  was  sitting  on  the  polar  bear  hearthrug  at  Mrs.  Sut- 
cliffe's  feet. 

"  Yes,  Mary." 

The  delicate,  wrinkled  hand  came  out  from  under  the 
cashmere  shawl  to  stroke  her  arm.  It  kept  on  stroking,  a 
long,  loving,  slow  caress.  It  made  her  queerly  aware  of  her 
arm  —  white  and  slender  under  the  big  puff  of  the  sleeve  — 
lying  across  Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  lap. 

"  He'll  be  happier  in  his  garden  at  Agaye." 

She  heard  herself  assenting.  "  He'll  be  happier."  And 
breaking  out.    "  But  I  shall  never  be  happy  again." 


296  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  You  mustn't  say  that,  my  dear." 

The  hand  went  on  stroking. 

"  There's  no  phice  on  earth,"  she  said,  ''  where  I'm  so 
happy  as  I  am  here." 

Suddenly  the  hand  stopped;  it  stiffened;  it  drew  back 
under  the  cashmere  shawl. 

She  turned  her  head  towards  Mr.  Sutcliffe  in  his  chair  on 
the  other  side  of  the  hearthrug. 

His  face  had  a  queer,  strained  look.  His  eyes  were  fixed, 
fixed  on  the  white,  slender  arm  that  lay  across  his  wife's 
lap. 

And  Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  queer,  strained 
face. 

XV 

Uncle  Victor's  letter  was  almost  a  relief. 

She  had  not  yet  allowed  herself  to  imagine  what  Morfe 
would  be  like  without  the  Sutcliffes.  And,  after  all,  they 
wouldn't  have  to  live  in  it.  If  Dan  accepted  Uncle  Victor's 
offer,  and  if  Marmna  accepted  his  conditions. 

Uncle  Victor  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  conditions.  He 
wouldn't  take  Dan  back  unless  Mamma  left  Morfe  and 
made  a  home  for  him  in  London.  He  wanted  them  all  to 
live  together  at  Five  Elms. 

The  discussion  had  lasted  from  a  quarter-past  nine  till 
half-past  ten.  Mamma  still  sat  at  the  breakfast-table, 
crumpling  and  uncrumpling  the  letter. 

"  I  wish  I  knew  what  to  do,"  she  said. 

"  Better  do  what  you  want,"  Dan  said.  "  Stay  here  if 
you  want  to.  Go  back  to  Five  Elms  if  you  want  to.  But 
for  God's  sake  don't  say  you're  doing  it  on  my  account." 

He  got  up  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

"  Goodness  knows  I  don't  want  to  go  back  to  Five  Elms. 
But  I  won't  stand  in  Dan's  way.  If  your  Uncle  Victor 
thinks  I  ought  to  make  th.e  sacrifice,  I  shall  make  it." 

"  And  Dan,"  Mary  said,  "  will  make  the  sacrifice  of  going 
back  to  Victor's  office.  It  would  be  simpler  if  he  went  to 
Canada." 

"  Your  uncle  can't  help  him  to  go  to  Canada.  He  won't 
hear  of  it.  .  .  .    I  suppose  we  shall  have  to  go." 


MATURITY  297 

They  were  going.  You  could  hear  Mrs.  Belk  buzzing 
round  the  village  with  the  news.     "  The  Oliviers  are  going." 

One  day  Mrs.  Belk  came  towards  her,  busily,  across  the 
Green. 

She  stopped  to  speak,  while  her  little  iron-grey  eyes 
glanced  off  sideways,  as  if  they  saw  something  important  to 
be  done. 

The  Sutcliffes  were  not  going,  after  all. 

XVI 

When  it  was  all  settled  and  she  thought  that  Dan  had 
gone  into  Reybum  a  fortnight  ago  to  give  notice  to  the  land- 
lord's solicitors,  one  evening,  as  she  was  coming  home  from 
the  Aldersons'  he  told  her  that  he  hadn't  been  to  the  solic- 
itors at  all. 

He  had  arranged  yesterday  for  his  transport  on  a  cattle 
ship  sailing  next  week  for  Montreal. 

He  said  he  had  always  meant  to  go  out  to  Jem  Alderson 
when  he  had  learnt  enough  from  Ned. 

"  Then  why,"  she  said,  "  did  you  let  Mamma  tell  poor 
Victor  —  " 

"  I  wanted  her  to  have  the  credit  of  the  sacrifice,"  he  said. 

And  then:  "  I  don't  like  leaving  you  here  —  " 

An  awful  thought  came  to  her. 

"  Are  you  sure  you  aren't  going  because  of  me?  " 

"  You?    What  on  earth  are  you  thinking  of?  " 

"  That  time  —  when  you  wouldn't  ask  Lindley  Vickers  to 
stop  on." 

''  Oh  ...  I  didn't  ask  him  because  I  knew  he  wanted 
to  stop  altogether.    And  I  don't  approve  of  him." 

She  turned  and  stared  at  him.  "  Then  it  wasn't  that  you 
didn't  approve  of  vie?  " 

"  What  put  that  in  your  head?  " 

"  Mamma.  She  told  me  you  couldn't  ask  anybody  again 
because  of  me.  She  said  I'd  frightened  Lindley  Vickers 
away.     Like  Aunt  Charlotte." 

Dan  smiled,  a  sombre,  reminiscent  smile. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you  still  take  Mamma  seriously? 
/  never  did." 


298  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"But  — Mark  — " 

"  Or  him  either." 

It  hurt  her  like  some  abominable  blasphemy. 

XVII 

Nothing  would  ever  happen.  She  would  stay  on  in  Morfe, 
she  and  Mamma:  without  Mark,  without  Dan,  without  the 
Sutcliffes.  .  .  . 

They  were  going.  .  .  . 

They  were  gone. 

XXVIII 


She  lay  out  on  the  moor,  under  the  August  sun.  Her 
hands  were  pressed  like  a  bandage  over  her  eyes.  When  she 
lifted  them  she  caught  the  faint  pink  glow  of  their  flesh. 
The  light  throbbed  and  flickered  as  she  pressed  it  out,  and 
let  it  in. 

The  sheep  couched,  panting,  in  the  shade  of  the  stone 
covers.  She  lay  so  still  that  the  peewits  had  stopped  their 
cry. 

Something  bothered  her.  .  .  , 

And  in  the  east  one  pure,  prophetic  star  —  one  pure  pro- 
phetic star  —  Trembles  between  the  darkness  and  the  dawn. 

What  you  wrote  last  year.  No  reason  why  you  shouldn't 
write  modern  plays  in  blank  verse  if  you  wanted  to.  Only 
people  didn't  say  those  things.     You  couldn't  do  it  that  way. 

Let  the  thing  go.  Tear  it  to  bits  and  burn  them  in  the 
kitchen  fire. 

If  you  lay  still,  perfectly  still,  and  stopped  thinking  the 
other  thing  would  come  back. 

In  dreams  He  has  made  you  wise, 

With  the  wisdom  of  silence  and  prayer, 

God,  who  has  blinded  your  eyes,  : 

With  the  dusk  of  your  hair. 

The  Mother.    The  Mother.    Mother  and  Son. 


MATURITY  299 

You  and  he  are  near  akin. 

Would  you  slay  your  brother-in-sin? 

What  he  does  yourself  shall  do  — 

That  was  the  Son's  hcrcditaty  destiny. 

Lying  on  her  back  under  Karva,  she  dreamed  her 
"  Dream-Play  ";  saying  the  unfinished  verses  over  and  over 
again,  so  as  to  remember  them  when  she  got  home.  She 
was  unutterably  happy. 

She  thought:  "  I  don't  care  what  happens  so  long  as  I 
can  go  on." 

She  jumped  up  to  her  feet.  "  I  must  go  and  see  what 
Mamma's  doing." 

Her  mother  was  sewing  in  the  drawing-room  and  waiting 
for  her  to  come  to  tea.     She  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  What  are  you  so  pleased  about?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  nothing." 

Mamma  was  adorable,  sitting  there  like  a  dove  on  its 
nest,  dressed  in  a  dove's  dress,  grey  on  grey,  turning  dove's 
eyes  to  you  in  soft,  crinkly  lids.  She  held  her  head  on  one 
side,  smiling  at  some  secret  that  she  kept.  Mamma  was 
happy,  too. 

"  What  are  you  looking  such  an  angel  for?  " 

Mamma  lifted  up  her  work,  showing  an  envelope  that 
lay  on  her  lap,  the  crested  flap  upwards,  a  blue  gun-car- 
riage on  a  white  ground,  and  the  motto:  "Ubique." 

Catty  had  been  into  Reyburn  to  shop  and  had  called  for 
the  letters.     Mark  was  coming  home  in  April. 

"  Oh  —  Mamma  —  " 

"  There's  a  letter  for  you,  Mary." 

(Not  from  Mark.) 

"  If  he  gets  that  appointment  he  won't  go  back."  She 
thought:  "She'll  never  be  unhappy  again.  She'll  never  be 
afraid  he'll  get  cholera." 

For  a  minute  their  souls  met  and  burned  together  in  the 
joy  they  shared. 

Then  broke  apart. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  show  me  Mr.  Sutcliffe's  letter?  " 

"Why  should  I?" 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  there's  anything  in  it  I  can't  see?  " 


300  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  You  can  see  it  if  you  like.    There's  nothing  in  it." 

That  was  why  she  hadn't  wanted  her  to  see  it.  For  any- 
thing there  was  in  it  you  might  never  have  known  him. 
But  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  had  sent  her  love. 

Mamma  looked  up  sharply. 

*'  Did  you  write  to  him,  Mary?  " 

"  Of  course  I  did." 

"  You'll  not  write  again.  He's  let  you  know  pretty  plainly 
he  isn't  going  to  be  bothered." 

(It  wasn't  that.     It  couldn't  be  that.) 

"  Did  they  say  anything  more  about  your  going  there?  " 

"  No." 

"  That  ought  to  show  you  then.  .  .  .  But  as  long  as  you 
live  you'll  give  yourself  away  to  people  who  don't  want 
you." 

''  I'd  rather  you  didn't  talk  about  them." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  I  can  talk  about,"  said 
Mamma. 

She  folded  up  her  work  and  laid  it  in  the  basket. 

Her  voice  dropped  from  the  sharp  note  of  resentment. 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  and  see  if  those  asters  have  come." 


n 

The  asters  had  come.  She  had  carried  out  the  long,  shal- 
low boxes  into  the  garden.  She  had  left  her  mother  kneeling 
beside  them,  looking  with  adoration  into  the  large,  round, 
innocent  faces,  white  and  purple,  mauve  and  magenta  and 
amethyst  and  pink.  If  the  asters  had  not  come  the  memory 
of  the  awful  things  they  had  said  to  each  other  would  have 
remained  with  them  till  bed-time;  but  Mamma  would  be 
happy  with  the  asters  like  a  child  with  its  toys,  planning 
where  they  were  to  go  and  planting  them. 

She  went  up  to  her  room.  After  thirteen  years  she  had 
still  the  same  childish  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  it  was 
hers  and  couldn't  be  taken  from  her,  because  nobody  else 
wanted  it. 

The  bookshelves  stretched  into  three  long  rows  on  the 
white  wall  above  her  bed  to  hold  the  books  Mr.  Sutcliffe  had 
given  her;  a  light  blue  row  for  the  Thomas  Hardy s;  a  dark 


MATURITY  301 

blue  for  the  George  Merediths;  royal  blue  and  gold  for  the 
Rudyard  Kiplings.  And  in  the  narrow  upright  bookcase  in 
the  arm  of  the  T  facing  her  writing-table,  Mark's  books: 
the  Homers  and  the  Greek  dramatists.  Their  backs  had 
faded  from  puce  colour  to  drab. 

Mark's  books. —  When  she  looked  at  them  she  could  still 
feel  her  old,  childish  lust  for  possession,  her  childish  sense 
of  insecurity,  of  defeat.  And  something  else.  The  begin- 
ning of  thinking  things  about  Mamma.  She  could  see  her- 
self standing  in  Mark's  bedroom  at  Five  Elms  and  Mamma 
with  her  hands  on  Mark's  books.  She  could  hear  herself 
saying,  "  You're  afraid." 

"  What  did  I  think  Mamma  was  afraid  of?  " 

Mamma  was  happy  out  there  with  the  asters. 

There  would  be  three  hours  before  dinner. 

She  began  setting  down  the  fragments  of  the  "  Dream- 
Play  "  that  had  come  to  her:  then  the  outlines.  She  saw 
very  clearly  and  precisely  how  it  would  have  to  be.  She 
was  intensely  happy. 


She  was  still  thinking  of  it  as  she  went  across  the  Green 
to  the  post  office,  instead  of  wondering  why  the  postmistress 
had  sent  for  her,  and  why  Miss  Horn  waited  for  her  by  the 
house  door  at  the  side,  or  why  she  looked  at  her  like  that, 
with  a  sort  of  yearning  pity  and  fear.  She  followed  her  into 
the  parlour  behind  the  post  office. 

Suddenly  she  was  awake  to  the  existence  of  this  parlour 
and  its  yellow  cane-bottomed  chairs  and  round  table  with 
the  maroon  cloth  and  the  white  alabaster  lamp  that  smelt. 
The  orange  envelope  lay  on  the  maroon  cloth.  Miss  Horn 
covered  it  with  her  hand. 

"  It's  for  Mr.  Dan,"  she  said.  **  I  daren't  send  it  to  the 
house  lest  3'our  mother  should  get  it." 

She  gave  it  up  with  a  slow,  unwilling  gesture. 

"  It's  bad  news,  Miss  Mary." 

..."  Your  Brother  Died  This  Evening."  .  .  . 

Her  heart  stopped,  staggered  and  went  on  again. 
"  Poona  "  —Mark  — 


302  MARY    OLIVIER:     A    LIFE 

"  Your  Brother  Died  This  Evening.  —  Symonds." 

"  This  evening  "  was  yesterday.  Mark  had  died  yester- 
day. 

Her  heart  stopped  again.  She  had  a  sudden  feeling  of 
suffocation  and  sickness. 

Her  mind  left  off  following  the  sprawl  of  the  thick  grey- 
black  letters  on  the  livid  pink  form. 

It  woke  again  to  the  extraordinary  existence  of  Miss 
Horn's  parlour.  It  went  back  to  Mark,  slowly,  by  the  way 
it  had  come,  by  the  smell  of  the  lamp,  by  the  orange  enve- 
lope on  the  maroon  cloth. 

Mark,    And  something  else. 

Mamma  —  Mamma.    She  would  have  to  know. 

Miss  Horn  still  faced  her,  supporting  herself  by  her 
spread  hands  pressed  down  on  to  the  table.  Her  eyes  had 
a  look  of  gentle,  helpless  interrogation,  as  if  she  said,  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 

She  did  all  the  necessary  things;  asked  for  a  telegram 
form,  filled  it  in:  "Send  Details,  Mary  Olivier";  and  ad- 
dressed it  to  Symonds  of  "  E  "  Company.  And  all  the  time, 
while  her  hand  moved  over  the  paper,  she  was  thinking,  *'  I 
shall  have  to  tell  Mamma." 

Ill 

The  five  windows  of  the  house  stared  out  at  her  across 
the  Green.  She  avoided  them  by  cutting  through  Horn's 
yard  and  round  by  the  Back  Lane  into  the  orchard.  She 
was  afraid  that  her  mother  would  see  her  before  she  had 
thought  how  she  would  tell  her  that  Mark  was  dead.  She 
shut  herself  into  her  room  to  think. 

She  couldn't  think. 

She  dragged  herself  from  the  window  seat  to  the  chair  by 
the  writing-table  and  from  the  chair  to  the  bed. 

She  could  still  feel  her  heart  staggering  and  stopping. 
Once  she  thought  it  was  going  to  stop  altogether.  She  had 
a  sudden  pang  of  joy.  "If  it  would  stop  altogether  —  I 
should  go  to  Mark.  Nothing  would  matter.  I  shouldn't 
have  to  tell  Mamma  that  he's  dead."  But  it  always  went 
on  again. 


\ 


MATURITY  303 

She  thought  of  Mark  now  without  any  feeling  at  all  except 
that  bodily  distress.  Her  mind  was  fixed  in  one  centre  of 
burning,  lucid  agony.     Mamma. 

"  I  can't  tell  her.  _  I  can't.  It'll  kill  her.  ...  I  don't 
see  how  she's  to  live  if  Mark's  dead.  ...  I  shall  send  for 
Aunt  Bella.  She  can  do  it.  Or  I  might  ask  Mrs.  Waugh. 
Or  Mr.  Rollitt." 

She  knew  she  wouldn't  do  any  of  these  things.  She 
would  have  to  tell  her. 

She  heard  the  clock  strike  the  half  hour.  Half-past  five. 
Not  yet.  "  When  it  strikes  seven  I  shall  go  and  tell 
Mamma." 

She  lay  down  on  her  bed  and  listened  for  the  strokes  of 
the  clock.  She  felt  nothing  but  an  immense  fatigue,  an 
appalling  heaviness.  Her  back  and  arms  were  loaded  with 
weights  that  held  her  body  down  on  to  the  bed. 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  up  and  tell  her." 

Six.  Half-past.  At  seven  she  got  up  and  went  down- 
stairs. Through  the  open  side  door  she  saw  her  mother 
working  in  the  garden. 

She  would  have  to  get  her  into  the  house. 

"  Mamma  —  darling." 

But  Mamma  wouldn't  come  in.  She  was  planting  the 
last  aster  in  the  row.  She  went  on  scooping  out  the  hole 
for  it,  slowly  and  deliberately,  with  her  trowel,  and  patting 
the  earth  about  it  with  wilful  hands.  There  was  a  little 
smudge  of  grey  earth  above  the  crinkles  in  her  soft,  sallow- 
white  forehead. 

"  You  wait,"  she  said. 

She  smiled  like  a  child  pleased  with  itself  for  taking  its 
own  way. 

Mary  waited. 

She  thought:  "  Three  hours  ago  I  was  angry  with  her.  I 
was  angry  with  her.  And  Mark  was  dead  then.  And  when 
she  read  his  letter.     He  was  dead  yesterday." 

IV 

Time  was  not  good  to  you.  Time  was  cruel.  Time  made 
you  see. 


304  MARY   OLIVIER:    A,  LIFE 

Yet  somehow  they  had  gone  through  time.  Nights  of 
August  and  September  when  you  got  up  before  daybreak  to 
listen  at  her  door.  Days  when  you  did  nothing.  Mamma 
sat  upright  in  her  chair  with  her  hands  folded  on  her  lap. 
She  kept  her  back  to  the  window:  you  saw  her  face  darken- 
ing in  the  dusk.  When  the  lamp  came  she  raised  her  arm 
and  the  black  shawl  hung  from  it  and  hid  her  face.  Nights 
of  insane  fear  when  you  had  to  open  her  door  and  look  in  to 
see  whether  she  were  alive  or  dead.  Days  when  you  were 
afraid  to  speak,  afraid  to  look  at  each  other.  Nights  when 
you  couldn't  sleep  for  wondering  how  Mark  had  died. 
They  might  have  told  you.  They  might  have  told  you  in 
one  word.  They  didn't,  because  they  couldn't;  because  the 
word  was  too  awful.  They  would  never  say  how  Mark  died. 
Mamma  thought  he  had  died  of  cholera. 

You  started  at  sounds,  at  the  hiss  of  the  flame  in  the 
grate,  the  fall  of  the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  the  tinkling  of 
the  front  door  bell. 

You  heard  Catty  slide  back  the  bolt.  People  muttered 
on  the  doorstep.  You  saw  them  go  back  past  the  window, 
quietly,  their  heads  turned  away.     They  were  ashamed. 

You  began  to  go  out.  You  walked  slowly,  weighted  more 
than  ever  by  your  immense,  inexplicable  fatigue.  When  you 
saw  people  coming  you  tried  to  go  quicker ;  when  you  spoke 
to  them  you  panted  and  felt  absurd.  A  coldness  came  over 
you  when  you  saw  Mrs.  Waugh  and  Miss  Frewin  with  their 
heads  on  one  side  and  their  shocked,  grieved  faces.  You 
smiled  at  them  as  you  panted,  but  they  wouldn't  smile  back. 
Their  grief  was  too  great.     They  would  never  get  over  it. 

You  began  to  watch  for  the  Indian  mail. 

One  day  the  letter  came.  You  read  blunt,  jerky  sentences 
that  told  you  Mark  had  died  suddenly,  in  the  mess  room, 
of  heart  failure.  Captain  Symonds  said  he  thought  you 
would  want  to  know  exactly  how  it  happened.  ...  ''  Well, 
we  were  '  cock-fighting,'  if  you  know  what  that  is,  after 
dinner.  Peters  is  the  heaviest  man  in  our  battery,  and 
Major  Olivier  was  carrying  him  on  his  back.  We  oughtn't 
to  have  let  him  do  it.  But  we  didn't  know  there  was  any- 
thing wrong  with  his  heart.  He  didn't  know  it  himself. 
We  thought  he  was  fooling  when  he  dropped  on  the  floor. 


MATURITY  305 

.  .  .  Everything  was  done  that  could  be  done.  ...  He 
couldn't  have  suffered.  ...  He  was  happy  up  to  the  last 
minute  of  his  life  —  shouting  with  laughter." 

She  saw  the  long  lighted  room.  She  saw  it  with  yellow 
walls  and  yellow  lights,  with  a  long,  white  table  and  clear, 
empty  wine-glasses.  Men  in  straw-coloured  bamboo  arm- 
chairs turning  round  to  look.  She  couldn't  see  their  faces. 
She  saw  Mark's  face.  She  heard  Mark's  voice,  shouting 
with  laughter.  She  saw  Mark  lying  dead  on  the  floor.  The 
men  stood  up  suddenly.  Somebody  without  a  face  knelt 
down  and  bent  over  him. 

It  was  as  if  she  had  never  known  before  that  Mark  was 
dead  and  knew  it  now.  She  cried  for  the  first  time  since 
his  death,  not  because  he  was  dead,  but  because  he  had  died 
like  that  —  playing. 

He  should  have  died  fighting.  Why  couldn't  he?  There 
was  the  Boer  War  and  the  Khyber  Pass  and  Chitral  and  the 
Soudan.  He  had  missed  them  all.  He  had  never  had  what 
he  had  wanted. 

And  JMamma  who  had  cried  so  much  had  left  off  crying. 

"  The  poor  man  couldn't  have  liked  writing  that  letter, 
Mary.     You  needn't  be  angry  with  him." 

"  I'm  not  angry  with  him.  I'm  angry  because  Mark  died 
like  that." 

"  Heigh-h  —  "  The  sound  in  her  mother's  throat  was 
like  a  sigh  and  a  sob  and  a  laugh  jerking  out  contempt. 

"  You  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about.  He's  gone, 
Mary.  If  you  were  his  mother  it  wouldn't  matter  to  you 
how  he  died  so  long  as  he  didn't  suffer.  So  long  as  he 
didn't  die  of  cholera." 

"  If  he  could  have  got  what  he  wanted  —  " 

"  What's  that  you  say?  " 

"  If  he  could  have  got  what  he  wanted." 

"  None  of  us  ever  get  what  we  want  in  this  world,"  said 
Mamma. 

She  thought:  "  It  was  her  son  —  her  eon  she  loved,  not 
Mark's  real,  secret  self.  He's  got  away  from  her  at  last  — 
altogether." 


306  MARY    OLIVIER:     A    LIFE 


She  sewed. 

Every  day  she  went  to  the  linen  cupboard  and  gathered 
up  all  the  old  towels  and  sheets  that  wanted  mending,  and 
she  sewed. 

Her  mother  had  a  book  in  her  lap.  She  noticed  that  if 
she  left  off  sewing  Mamma  would  take  up  the  book  and  read, 
and  when  she  began  again  she  would  put  it  down. 

Her  thoughts  went  from  Mamma  to  Mark,  from  Mark  to 
M'lmma.  She  used  to  be  pleased  when  she  saw  you  sewing. 
"  Nothing  will  ever  please  her  now.  She'll  never  be  happy 
again.  ...  I  ought  to  have  died  instead  of  Mark.  .  .  . 
That's  Anthony  Trollope  she's  reading." 

The  long  sheet  kept  slipping.  It  dragged  on  her  arm. 
Her  arms  felt  swollen,  and  heavy  like  bars  of  lead.  She  let 
them  drop  to  her  knees.  .  .  .  Little  Mamma. 

She  picked  up  the  sheet  again. 

"  Why  are  you  sewing,  Mary?  " 

"  I  must  do  something." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  a  book  and  read?  " 

"  I  can't  read." 

"  Well  —  why  don't  you  go  out  for  a  walk?  " 

''  Too  tired." 

"  You'd  better  go  and  lie  down  in  your  room." 

She  hated  her  room.  Everything  in  it  reminded  her  of 
the  day  after  Mark  died.  The  rows  of  new  books  reminded 
her;  and  Mark's  books  in  the  narrow  bookcase.  They  were 
hers.  She  would  never  be  asked  to  give  them  back  again. 
Yesterday  she  had  taken  out  the  ^schylus  and  looked  at  it, 
and  she  had  forgotten  that  Mark  was  dead  and  had  felt  glad 
because  it  was  hers.  To-day  she  had  been  afraid  to  see  its 
shabby  drab  back  lest  it  should  remind  her  of  that,  too. 

Her  mother  sighed  and  put  her  book  away.  She  sat  with 
her  hands  before  her,  waiting. 

Her  face  had  its  old  look  of  reproach  and  disapproval,  the 
drawn,  irritated  look  you  saw  when  you  came  between  her 
and  Mark.  As  if  your  grief  for  Mark  came  between  her  and 
her  grief,  as  if,  deep  down  inside  her,  she  hated  your  grief 
as  she  had  hated  your  love  for  him,  without  knowing  that 
she  hated  it. 


MATURITY  307 

Suddenly  she  turned  on  you  her  blurred,  wounded  eyes. 

"  Mary,  when  you  look  at  me  like  that  I  feel  as  if  you 
knew  everything  I'm  thinking," 

"  I  don't.     I  shall  never  know." 

Supposing  all  the  time  she  knew  what  you  were  think- 
ing?   Supposing  Mark  knew?    Supposing  the  dead  knew? 

She  was  glad  of  the  aching  of  her  heart  that  dragged 
her  thought  down  and  numbed  it. 

The  January  twilight  crept  between  them.  She  put  down 
her  sewing.  At  the  stroke  of  the  clock  her  motlier  stirred 
in  her  chair. 

"  What  day  of  the  month  is  it?  "  she  said. 

"  The  twenty-fifth." 

"  Then  —  yesterday  was  your  birthday.  .  .  .  Poor  Mary, 
I  forgot.  ,  .  .  I  sit  here,  thinking.  My  own  thoughts. 
They  make  me  forget.  .  .  .     Come  here." 

She  went  to  her,  drawn  by  a  passion  stronger  than  her 
passion  for  Mark,  her  hard,  proud  passion  for  Mark, 

Her  mother  put  up  her  face.  She  stooped  down  and 
kissed  her  passionately,  on  her  mouth,  her  wet  cheeks,  her 
dove's  eyes,  her  dove's  eyelids.  She  crouched  on  the  floor 
beside  her,  leaning  her  head  against  her  lap.  Mamma's 
hand  held,  it  there. 

"  Are  you  twenty-nine  or  thirty?  " 

"  Thirty.  " 

"  You  don't  look  it.  You've  always  been  such  a  little 
thing,  .  .  .  You  remember  the  silly  question  you  used  to 
ask  me?  '  Mamma  —  would  you  love  me  better  if  I  was 
two?  '  " 

She  remembered.  Long  ago.  When  she  came  teasing 
for  kisses.    The  silly  question. 

"  You  remember  that?  " 

*'  Yes,     I  remember," 

Deep  down  inside  her  there  was  something  you  would 
never  know. 

XXIX 


Mamma  was  planting  another  row  of  asters  in  the  garden 
in  the  place  of  those  that  had  died  last  September. 


308  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

The  outline  of  the  map  of  South  Africa  had  gone  from 
the  wall  at  the  bottom.  Roddy's  bit  was  indistinguishable 
from  the  rest. 

And  always  you  knew  what  would  happen.  Outside,  on 
the  Green,  the  movements  of  the  village  repeated  themselves 
like  the  play  of  a  clock-work  toy.  Always  the  same  figures 
on  the  same  painted  stand,  marked  with  the  same  pattern 
of  slanting  roads  and  three-cornered  grass-plots.  Half-way 
through  prayers  the  Morfe  bus  would  break  loose  from  High 
Row  with  a  clatter,  and  the  brakes  would  grind  on  the  hill. 
An  hour  after  tea-time  it  would  come  back  with  a  mournful 
tapping  and  scraping  of  hoofs. 

She  had  left  off  watching  for  the  old  red  mail-cart  to 
come  round  the  corner  at  the  bottom.  Sometimes,  at  long 
intervals,  there  would  be  a  letter  for  her  from  Aunt  Lavvy 
or  Dan  or  Mrs.  Sutcliffe.  She  couldn't  tell  when  it  would 
come,  but  she  knew  on  what  days  the  long  trolleys  would  stop 
by  Mr.  Horn's  j^ard  loaded  with  powdery  sacks  of  flour,  and 
on  what  days  the  brewer's  van  would  draw  up  to  the  King's 
Head  and  the  Farmers'  Arms.  When  she  looked  out  across 
the  Green  she  caught  the  hard  stare  of  the  Belks'  house,  the 
tall,  lean,  grey  house  blotched  with  iron  stains.  It  stood  on 
the  sheer  edge  where  the  platform  dropped  to  the  turn  of 
the  road.  Every  morning  at  ten  o'clock  its  little  door  would 
open  and  Mr.  Belk  would  come  out  and  watch  for  his  London 
paper.  Every  evening  at  ten  minutes  past  ten  the  shadow 
of  Mr.  Belk  would  move  across  the  yellow  blind  of  the  draw- 
ing-room window  on  the  right;  the  light  would  go  out,  and 
presently  a  blond  blur  would  appear  behind  the  blind  of  the 
bedroom  window  on  the  left. 

Every  morning  at  twelve  Mrs.  Belk  would  hurry  along, 
waddling  and  shaking,  to  leave  the  paper  with  her  aunt,  old 
Mrs.  Heron,  in  the  dark  cottage  that  crouched  at  the  top  of 
the  Green.  Every  afternoon  at  three  Dorsy  would  bring  it 
back  again. 

When  Mary  came  in  from  the  village  Mamma  would 
look  up  and  say  "  Well?  "  as  if  she  expected  her  to  have 
something  interesting  to  tell.  She  wished  that  something 
would  happen  so  that  she  might  tell  Mamma  about  it.  She 
tried  to  think  of  something,  something  to  say  that  would 
interest  Mamma. 


MATURITY  309 

"  I  met  Mr.  James  on  the  Garthdale  Road.  Walking  like 
anything.  " 

"  Did  you?  "    Mamma  was  not  interested  in  Mr.  James. 

She  wondered,  "  Why  can't  I  think  of  things  like  other 
people?  "    She  had  a  sense  of  defeat,  of  mournful  incapacity. 

One  day  Catty  came  bustling  in  with  the  tea-things,  look- 
ing important.    She  had  brouglit  news  from  the  village. 

Mrs.  Heron  had  broken  her  thigh.  She  had  slipped  on 
the  landing.    Mrs.  Belk  was  with  her  and  wouldn't  go  away. 

Catty  tried  to  look  sorry,  but  you  could  see  she  was 
pleased  because  she  had  something  to  tell  you. 

They  talked  about  it  all  through  tea-time.  They  were 
sorry  for  Mrs.  Heron.  They  wondered  what  poor  Dorsy 
would  do  if  anything  should  happen  to  her.  And  through  all 
their  sorrow  there  ran  a  delicate,  secret  thrill  of  satisfaction. 
Something  had  happened.  Something  that  interested 
Mamma. 

Two  daj's  later  Dorsy  came  in  with  her  tale;  her  nose 
was  redder,  her  hare's  eyes  were  frightened. 

"  Mrs.  Belk's  there  still,"  she  said.  ''  She  wants  to  take 
Aunt  to  live  with  her.  She  wants  her  to  send  me  away.  She 
says  it  wouldn't  have  happened  if  I'd  looked  after  her  prop- 
erly. And  so  it  wouldn't,  Mary,  if  I'd  been  there.  But 
I'd  a  bad  headache,  and  I  was  lying  down  for  a  minute  when 
she  fell.  .  .  .  She  won't  go.  She's  sitting  there  in  Aunt's 
room  all  the  time,  talking  and  tiring  her.  Trying  to 
poison  Aunt's  mind  against  me.  Working  on  her  to  send 
me  away." 

Dorsy's  voice  dropped  and  her  face  reddened. 

''  She  thinks  I'm  after  Aunt's  money.  She's  always  been 
afraid  of  her  leaving  it  to  me.  I'm  only  her  husband's 
nephew's  daughter.    Mrs.  Belk's  her  real  niece.  .  .  . 

"I'd  go  to-morrow,  Mary,  but  Aunt  wants  me  there. 
She  doesn't  like  Mrs.  Belk;  I  think  she's  afraid  of  her.  And 
she  can't  get  away  from  her.  She  just  lies  there  with  her 
poor  leg  in  the  splints;  there's  the  four-pound  weight  from 
the  kitchen  scales  tied  on  to  keep  it  on  the  stretch.  If  you 
could  see  her  eyes  turning  to  me  when  I  come.  .  .  . 

"  One  thing  —  Mrs.  Belk's  afraid  for  her  life  of  me. 
That's  why  she's  trying  to  poison  Aunt's  mind." 


310  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

When  they  saw  Mrs.  Belk  hurrying  across  the  Green  to 
Mrs.  Heron's  house  they  knew  what  she  was  going  for. 
"  Poor  Dorsy!  "  they  said. 
"Poor  Dorsy!" 
They  had  something  to  talk  to  each  other  about  now. 

II 

Winter  and  spring  passed.  The  thorn-trees  flowered  on 
Greffington  Edge:  dim  white  groves,  magically  still  under 
the  grey,  glassy  air. 

May  passed  and  June.  The  sleek  waves  of  the  hay-fields 
shone  with  the  brushing  of  the  wind,  ready  for  mowing. 

The  elder  tree  by  the  garden  wall  was  a  froth  of  greenish 
white  on  green. 

At  the  turn  of  the  schoolhouse  lane  the  flowers  began: 
wild  geraniums  and  rose  campion,  purple  and  blue  and 
magenta,  in  a  white  spray  of  cow's  parsley:  standing  high 
against  the  stone  walls,  up  and  up  the  green  lane. 

Down  there,  where  the  two  dales  spread  out  at  the 
bottom,  a  tiny  Dutch  landscape.  Flat  pastures.  Trees 
dotted  about.  A  stiff  row  of  trees  at  the  end.  No  sky  be- 
hind them.  Trees  green  on  green,  not  green  on  blue.  The 
great  flood  of  the  sky  dammed  off  by  the  hills. 

She  shut  her  eyes  and  saw  the  flat  fields  of  Ilford,  and 
the  low  line  of  flying  trees;  a  thin,  watery  mirage  against 
the  hill. 

Since  Mark  died  she  had  begun  to  dream  about  Ilford. 
She  would  struggle  and  break  through  out  of  some  dream 
about  Morfe  and  find  herself  in  Ley  Street,  going  to  Five 
Elms.  She  would  get  past  the  corner  and  see  the  red  brick 
gable  end.  Sometimes,  when  she  came  up  to  the  gate,  the 
house  would  turn  into  Greffington  Hall.  Sometimes  it  would 
stand  firm  with  its  three  rows  of  flat  windows;  she  would 
go  up  the  flagged  path  and  see  the  sumach  tree  growing  by 
the  pantry  w^indow;  and  when  the  door  was  opening  she 
would  wake. 

Sometimes  the  door  stood  open.  She  would  go  in.  She 
would  go  up  the  stairs  and  down  the  passages,  trying  to  find 
the  schoolroom.     She  would  know  that  Mark  was  in  the 


MATURITY  311 

schoolroom.  But  she  could  never  find  it.  She  never  saw 
Mark.  The  passages  led  througli  empty,  grey-lit  rooms  to 
the  bottom  of  the  kitchen  stairs,  and  she  would  find  a  dead 
baby  lying  among  the  boots  and  shoes  in  the  cat's  cupboard. 
Autumn  and  winter  passed.    She  was  thirty-two. 

Ill 

When  your  mind  stopped  and  stood  still  it  could  feel 
time.  Time  going  fast,  going  faster  and  faster.  Every  year 
its  rhythm  swung  on  a  longer  curve. 

Your  mind  stretched  to  the  span  of  time.  There  was 
something  exciting  about  this  stretch,  like  a  new  sense 
growing.  But  in  your  dreams  your  mind  shrank  again ;  you 
were  a  child,  a  child  remembering  and  returning;  haunting 
old  stairs  and  passages,  knocking  at  shut  doors.  This  child 
tried  to  drag  you  back,  it  teased  you  to  make  rhymes  about 
it.    You  were  not  happy  till  you  had  made  the  rhymes. 

There  was  something  in  you  that  went  on,  that  refused 
to  turn  back,  to  look  for  happiness  in  memory.  Your  happi- 
ness was  noio,  in  the  moment  that  you  lived,  while  3'ou  made 
rhymes;  while  you  looked  at  the  white  thorn-trees;  while  the 
black-purple  cloud  passed  over  Karva. 

Yesterday  she  had  said  to  Dorsy  Heron,  "  What  I  can't 
stand  is  seeing  the  same  faces  every  day." 

But  the  hill  world  had  never  the  same  face  for  five  min- 
utes. Its  very  form  changed  as  the  roads  turned.  The 
swing  of  your  stride  put  in  play  a  vast,  mysterious  scene- 
shifting  that  disturbed  the  sky.  Moving  through  it  you 
stood  still  in  the  heart  of  an  immense  being  that  moved. 
Standing  still  you  were  moved,  you  were  drawn  nearer  and 
nearer  to  its  enclosing  heart. 

She  swung  off  the  road  beyond  the  sickle  to  the  last  moor- 
track  that  led  to  the  other  side  of  Karva.  She  came  back 
by  the  southern  slope,  down  the  twelve  fields,  past  the  four 
farms. 

The  farm  of  the  thorn-tree,  the  farm  of  the  ash,  the  farm 
of  the  three  firs  and  the  farm  all  alone. 

Four  houses.    Four  tales  to  be  written. 

There  was  something  in  you  that  would  go  on,  whatever 


312  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

happened.  Whatever  happened  it  would  still  be  happy.  Its 
happiness  was  not  like  the  queer,  sudden,  uncertain  ecstasy. 
She  had  never  known  what  that  was.  It  came  and  went; 
it  had  gone  so  long  ago  that  she  was  sure  that  whatever  it 
had  been  it  would  never  come  again.  She  could  only  remem- 
ber its  happening  as  you  remember  the  faint  ecstasies  of 
dreams.  She  thought  of  it  as  something  strange  and  excit- 
ing. Sometimes  she  wondered  whether  it  had  really 
happened,  whether  there  wasn't  a  sort  of  untruthfulness  in 
supposing  it  had. 

But  that  ecstasj''  and  this  happiness  had  one  quality  in 
common;  they  belonged  to  some  part  of  you  that  was  free. 
A  you  that  had  no  hereditary  destiny;  that  had  got  out  of 
the  net,  or  had  never  been  caught  in  it. 

You  could  stand  aside  and  look  on  at  its  happiness  with 
horror,  it  didn't  care.  It  was  utterly  indifferent  to  your 
praise  or  blame,  and  the  praise  or  blame  of  other  people; 
or  to  your  happiness  and  theirs.  It  was  open  to  you  to  own 
it  as  your  self  or  to  detach  yourself  from  it  in  your  horror. 
It  was  stronger  and  saner  than  you.  If  you  chose  to  set  up 
that  awful  conflict  in  your  soul  that  was  your  own  affair. 

Perhaps  not  your  own.  Supposing  the  conflict  in  you  was 
the  tug  of  the  generations  before  you,  trying  to  drag  you 
back  to  them?  Supposing  the  horror  was  their  horror,  their 
fear  of  defeat? 

She  had  left  off  being  afraid  of  what  might  happen  to 
her.  It  might  never  happen.  And  supposing  it  did,  suppos- 
ing it  had  to  happen  when  you  were  forty-five,  you  had  still 
thirteen  years  to  write  in. 

"  It  shan't  happen.  I  won't  let  it.  I  won't  let  them 
beat  me." 

IV 

Last  year  the  drawer  in  the  writing-table  was  full.  This 
year  it  had  overflowed  into  the  top  left-hand  drawer  of  the 
dressing-table.  She  had  to  turn  out  all  the  handkerchiefs 
and  stockings. 

Her  mother  met  her  as  she  was  carrying  them  to  the 
wardrobe  in  the  spare  room.  You  could  see  she  felt  that 
there  was  something  here  that  must  be  enquired  into. 


MATURITY  313 

"  I  should  have  thought,"  she  said,  "  that  writing-table 
drawer  was  enough." 

"  It  isn't." 

"  Tt-t — "  Mamma  nodded  her  head  in  a  sort  of  exas- 
perated resignation. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you're  going  to  keep  all  that?  " 

"  All  that?    You  should  see  what  I've  burnt." 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  you're  going  to  do  with  it!  " 

"  So  should  I.    That's  just  it  —  I  don't  know." 

That  night  the  monstrous  thought  came  to  her  in  bed: 
Supposing  I  published  those  poems  —  I  always  meant  to  do 
it  some  day.  Why  haven't  I?  Because  I  don't  care?  Or 
because  I  care  too  much?  Because  I'm  afraid?  Afraid  that 
if  somebody  reads  them  the  illusion  they've  created  would 
be  gone? 

How  do  I  know  my  writing  isn't  like  my  playing? 

This  is  different.  There's  nothing  else.  If  it's  taken  from 
me  I  shan't  want  to  go  on  living. 

You  didn't  want  to  go  on  living  when  Mark  died.  Yet 
you  went  on.  As  if  Mark  had  never  died.  .  .  .  And  if 
Mamma  died  you'd  go  on  —  in  your  illusion. 

If  it  is  an  illusion  I'd  rather  know  it. 

How  can  I  know?  There  isn't  anybody  here  who  can 
tell  me.    Nobody  you  could  believe  if  they  told  you  — 

I  can  believe  myself.  I've  burnt  everything  I've  written 
that  was  bad. 

You  believe  yourself  to-day.  You  believed  yesterday. 
How  do  you  know  you'll  believe  to-morrow? 

To-morrow  — 


Aunt  Lavvy  had  come  to  stay. 

When  she  came  you  had  the  old  feeling  of  something 
interesting  about  to  happen.  Only  you  knew  now  that  this 
was  an  illusion. 

She  talked  to  you  as  though,  instead  of  being  thirty-three, 
you  were  still  very  small  and  very  young  and  ignorant  of  all 
the  things  that  really  mattered.  She  was  vaguer  and  greyer, 
more  placid  than  ever,  and  more  content  with  God. 


314  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Impossible  to  believe  that  Papa  used  to  bully  her  and 
that  Aunt  Lavvy  had  revolted. 

"  For  thirty-three  years,  Emilius,  thirty-three  years  "  — 

Sunday  supper  at  Five  Elms;  on  the  table  James 
Martineau's  Endeavours  After  the  Christian  Life. 

She  wondered  why  she  hadn't  thought  of  Aunt  Lavvy. 
Aunt  Lavvy  knew  Dr.  Martineau.  As  long  as  you  could 
remember  she  had  always  given  a  strong  impression  of 
knowing  him  quite  well. 

But  when  Mary  had  made  it  clear  what  she  wanted  her 
to  ask  him  to  do,  it  turned  out  that  Aunt  Lavvy  didn't  know 
Dr.  Martineau  at  all. 

And  you  could  see  she  thought  you  presumptuous. 


VI 

When  old  Martha  brought  the  message  for  her  to  go  to 
tea  with  Miss  Kendal,  Mary  slunk  out  through  the  orchard 
into  the  Back  Lane.  At  that  moment  the  prospect  of  talking 
two  hours  with  Miss  Kendal  was  unendurable. 

And  there  was  no  other  prospect.  As  long  as  she  lived 
in  Morfe  there  would  be  nothing  —  apart  from  her  real, 
secret  life  there  would  be  nothing  —  to  look  forward  to  but 
that.  If  it  was  not  Miss  Kendal  it  would  be  Miss  Louisa  or 
Dorsy  or  old  Mrs.  Heron.  People  talked  about  dying  of 
boredom  who  didn't  know  that  you  could  really  die  of  it. 

If  only  you  didn't  keep  on  wanting  somebody  —  somebody 
who  wasn't  there.  If,  before  it  killed  you,  you  could  kill 
the  desire  to  know  another  mind,  a  luminous,  fiery  crystal, 
to  see  it  turn,  shining  and  flashing.  To  talk  to  it,  to  listen 
to  it,  to  love  the  human  creature  it  belonged  to. 

She  envied  her  youth  its  capacity  for  day-dreaming,  for 
imagining  interminable  communions.  Brilliant  hallucina- 
tions of  a  mental  hunger.  Better  than  nothing.  ...  If 
this  went  on  the  breaking-point  must  come.  Suddenly  you 
would  go  smash.  Smash.  Your  mind  would  die  in  a  de- 
lirium of  hunger. 


MATURITY  315 


VII 

"  It's  a  pity  we  can't  go  to  his  lecture,  "  said  Miss  Kendal. 

The  train  was  moving  out  of  Reyburn  station.  It  was 
awful  to  think  how  nearly  they  had  missed  it.  If  Dr. 
Charles  had  stayed  another  minute  at  the  harness-maker's. 

Miss  Kendal  sat  on  the  edge  of  the  seat,  very  upright  in 
her  black  silk  mantle  with  the  accordion-pleated  chiffon 
frills.  She  had  sat  like  that  since  the  train  began  to  pull, 
ready  to  get  out  the  instant  it  stopped  at  Durlingham. 

"  I  feel  sure  it's  going  to  be  all  right,"  she  said. 

The  white  marabou  feather  nodded. 

Her  gentle  mauve  and  sallow  face  was  growing  old,  with 
soft  curdlings  and  puckerings  of  the  skin;  but  she  still 
carried  her  head  high,  nodding  at  you  with  her  air  of  gaiety, 
of  ineffable  intrigue. 

"  I  wouldn't  bring  you,  Mary,  if  I  didn't  feel  sure." 

If  she  had  not  felt  sure  she  wouldn't  have  put  on  the 
grey  kid  gloves,  the  mantle  and  the  bonnet  with  the  white 
marabou  feather.  You  don't  dress  like  that  to  go  shopping 
in  Durlingham. 

"  You  mean,"  Mary  said,  "  that  we  shall  see  him." 

Her  heart  beat  calmly,  stilled  by  the  sheer  incredibility 
of  the  adventure. 

''  Of  course  we  shall  see  him."  Mrs.  Smythe-Caulfield 
will  manage  that.  It  might  have  been  a  little  difficult  if  the 
Professor  had  been  staying  anywhere  else.  But  I  know 
Mrs.  Smythe-Caulficld  very  well.  No  doubt  she's  arranged 
for  you  to  have  a  long  talk  with  him." 

"  Does  she  know  what  I  want  to  see  him  about?  " 

"  Well  —  yes  —  I  thought  it  best,  my  dear,  to  tell  her  just 
what  you  told  me,  so  that  she  might  see  how  important 
it  is.  .  .  .  There's  no  knowing  what  may  come  of  it.  .  .  . 
Did  you  bring  them  with  you?  " 

"  No,  I  didn't.  If  he  won't  look  at  them  I  should  feel 
such  an  awful  fool." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Miss  Kendal,  "  it  is  wiser  not  to  assume 
beforehand.  Nothing  may  come  of  it.  Still,  I  can't  help 
feeling  something  will.  .  .  .  When  you're  famous,  Mary, 
I  shall  think  of  how  we  went  into  Durlingham  together." 


316  MARY   OLIVIER:    A  LIFE 

"  Whatever  comes  of  it  I  shall  think  of  you." 

The  marabou  feather  quivered  slightly. 

"  How  long  have  we  known  each  other?  " 

"  Seventeen  years." 

"Is  it  so  long?  ...  I  shall  never  forget  the  first  day 
you  came  with  your  mother.  I  can  see  you  now,  Mary, 
sitting  beside  my  poor  father  with  your  hand  on  his  chair. 
.  .  .  And  that  evening  when  you  played  to  us,  and  dear  Mr. 
Roddy  was  there.  ..." 

She  thought:  "  Why  can't  I  be  kind  —  always?  Kindness 
matters  more  than  anything.  Some  day  she'll  die  and  she'll 
never  have  said  or  thought  one  unkind  thing  in  all  her  poor, 
dreadful  little  life.  .  .  .  Why  didn't  I  go  to  tea  with  her  on 
Wednesday?  " 

On  Wednesday  her  mind  had  revolted  against  its  destiny 
of  hunger.  She  had  hated  Morfe.  She  had  felt  angry  with 
her  mother  for  making  her  live  in  it,  for  expecting  her  to 
be  content,  for  thinking  that  Dorsy  and  Miss  Louisa  and 
Miss  Kendal  were  enough.  She  had  been  angry  with  Aunt 
Lavvy  for  talking  about  her  to  Miss  Kendal. 

Yet  if  it  weren't  for  Miss  Kendal  she  wouldn't  be  going 
into  Durlingham  to  see  Professor  Lee  Ramsden. 

Inconceivable  that  she  should  be  taken  by  Miss  Kendal 
to  see  Professor  Lee  Ramsden.  Yet  this  inconceivable  thing 
appeared  to  be  happening. 

She  tried  to  remember  what  she  knew  about  him.  He 
was  Professor  of  English  literature  at  the  University  of 
London.  He  had  edited  Anthologies  and  written  Introduc- 
tions. He  had  written  a  History  of  English  Literature  from 
Chaucer  to  Tennyson  and  a  monograph  on  Shelley. 

She  thought  of  his  mind  as  a  luminous,  fiery  crystal, 
shining. 

Posters  on  the  platform  at  Durlingham  announced  in  red 
letters  that  Professor  Lee  Ramsden,  M.A.,  F.R.S.L.,  would 
lecture  in  the  Town  Hall  at  8  p.m.  She  heard  Miss  Kendal 
saying,  "  If  it  had  been  at  three  instead  of  eight  we  could 
have  gone."  She  had  a  supreme  sense  of  something  about 
to  happen. 

Heavenly  the  long,  steep-curved  glass  roof  of  the  station, 
the  iron  arches  and  girders,  the  fanlights.     Poreign  and 


MATURITY  317 

beautiful  the  black  canal  between  the  purplish  rose-red  walls, 
the  white  swans  swaying  on  the  black  water,  the  red  shaft 
of  the  clock-tower.  It  shot  up  high  out  of  the  Market-place, 
topped  with  the  fantastically  large,  round,  white  eye  of  its 
clock. 

She  kept  on  looking  up  to  the  clock-tower.  At  four  she 
would  see  him. 

They  walked  about  the  town.  They  lunched  and  shopped. 
They  sat  in  the  Park.  They  kept  on  looking  at  the  clock- 
tower. 

At  the  bookseller's  in  the  Market-place  she  bought  a 
second-hand  copy  of  Walt  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass.  .  .  . 

A  black-grey  drive  between  bushes  of  smutty  laurel  and 
arbutus.  A  black-grey  house  of  big  cut  stones  that  stuck 
out.  Gables  and  bow  windows  with  sharp  freestone  facings 
that  stuck  out.  You  waited  in  a  drawing-room  stuffed  with 
fragile  mahogany  and  sea-green  plush.  Immense  sea-green 
acanthus  leaves,  shaded  in  myrtle  green,  curled  out  from 
the  walls.  A  suggestion  of  pictures  heaved  up  from  their 
places  by  this  vigorous,  thrusting  growth. 

Curtains,  cream-coloured  net,  sea-green  plush,  veiled  the 
black-grey  walks  and  smutty  lawns  of  the  garden. 

While  she  contemplated  these  things  the  long  hand  of 
the  white  marble  tombstone  clock  moved  from  the  hour  to 
the  quarter. 

She  was  reading  the  inscription,  in  black  letters,  on  the 
golden  plinth:  "Presented  to  Thomas  Smythe-Caulfield, 
Esqr.,  M.P.,  by  the  Council  and  Teachers  of  St.  Paul's 
Schools,  Durlingham  " — "  Presented  " —  when  Mrs.  Smythe- 
Caulfield  came  in. 

A  foolish,  overblown,  conceited  face.  Grey  hair  arranged 
with  art  and  science,  curl  on  curl.  Three-cornered  eyelids, 
hutches  for  small,  malevolently  watching  eyes.  A  sharp, 
insolent  nose.  Fish's  mouth  peering  out  above  the  back- 
ward slope  of  case?   ing  chins. 

Mrs.  Smythe-Cauiiield  shook  hands  at  a  sidelong  arm's- 
length,  not  looking  at  you,  holding  Miss  Kendal  in  her  sharp 
pointed  stare.  They  were  Kate  and  Eleanor:  Eleanor  and 
Kate. 

"  You're  going  to  the  lecture?  " 


318  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  If  it  had  been  at  three  instead  of  eight  —  " 

"  The  hour  was  fixed  for  the  townspeople's  convenience." 

In  five  minutes  you  liad  gathered  that  you  would  not  be 
allowed  to  see  Professor  Lee  Ramsden;  that  Professor  Lee 
Ramsden  did  not  desire  to  see  or  talk  to  anybody  except 
Mrs.  Smythe-Caulfield ;  that  he  kept  his  best  things  for  her; 
that  all  sorts  of  people  were  trying  to  get  at  him,  and  that 
he  trusted  her  to  protect  him  from  invasion;  that  you  had 
been  admitted  in  order  that  Mrs.  Smythe-Caulfield  might 
have  the  pleasure  of  telling  you  these  things. 

Mary  saw  that  the  moment  was  atrocious;  but  it  didn't 
matter.  A  curious  tranquillity  possessed  her:  she  felt  some- 
thing there,  close  to  her,  like  a  person  in  the  room,  giving 
her  a  sudden  security.  The  moment  that  was  mattering  so 
abominably  to  her  poor,  kind  friend  belonged  to  a  time  that 
was  not  her  time. 

She  heard  the  tinkle  of  tea  cups  outside  the  hall;  then 
a  male  voice,  male  footsteps.  Mrs.  Smythe-Caulfield  made 
a  large  encircling  movement  towards  the  door.  Something 
interceptive  took  place  there. 

As  they  went  back  down  the  black-grey  drive  between 
the  laurel  and  arbutus  Miss  Kendal  carried  her  head  higher 
than  ever. 

"  That  is  the  first  time  in  my  life,  Mary,  that  I've  asked 
a  favour." 

"  You  did  it  for  me."  {"  She  hated  it,  but  she  did  it  for 
me.") 

"  Never  mind.  We  aren't  going  to  mind,  are  we?  We'll 
do  without  them.  .  .  .  That's  right,  my  dear.  Laugh.  I'm 
glad  you  can.    I  dare  say  I  shall  laugh  myself  to-morrow." 

"  I  don't  want  to  laugh,"  Mary  said.  She  could  have 
cried  when  she  looked  at  the  grey  gloves  and  the  frilled 
mantle,  and  the  sad,  insulted  face  in  the  bonnet  with  the 
white  marabou  feather.  (And  that  horrible  woman  hadn't 
even  given  her  tea.) 

The  enormous  eye  of  the  town  clock  pursued  them  to  the 
station. 

As  they  settled  into  their  seats  in  the  Reyburn  train  Miss 
Kendal  said,  "  It's  a  pity  we  couldn't  go  to  the  lecture." 

She  leaned  back,  tired,  in  her  corner.  She  closed  her 
eyes. 


MATURITY  319 

Mary  opened  Walt  Whitman's  Leaves  of  Grass. 
The  beginning  had  begun. 

XXX 


"What  are  you  reading,  Mary?  " 

"  The  New  Testament.  .  .  .  Extraordinary  how  interest- 
ing it  is." 

"  Interesting!  " 

"  Frightfully  interesting." 

"  You  may  say  what  you  like,  Mary;  you'll  change  your 
mind  some  day.  I  pray  every  night  that  you  may  come  to 
Christ;  and  you'll  find  in  the  end  you'll  have  to  come."  .  .  . 

No.  No.  Still,  he  said,  "  The  Kingdom  of  God  is  within 
you."    If  the  Greek  would  bear  it  —  within  you. 

Did  they  understand  their  Christ?  Had  anybody  ever 
understood  him?  Their  "  Prince  of  Peace  "  who  said  he 
hadn't  come  to  send  peace,  but  a  sword?  The  sword  of  the 
Self.  He  said  he  had  come  to  set  a  man  against  his  father 
and  the  daughter  against  her  mother,  and  that  because  of 
him  a  man's  foes  should  be  those  of  his  own  household. 
"  Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild.  " 

He  was  not  meek  and  mild.  He  was  only  gentle  with 
children  and  women  and  sick  people.  He  was  brave  and 
proud  and  impatient  and  ironic.  He  wouldn't  stay  with  his 
father  and  mother.  He  liked  happy  people  who  could  amuse 
themselves  without  boring  him.  He  liked  to  get  away  from 
his  disciples,  and  from  Lazarus  and  Martha  and  Mary  of 
Bethany,  and  go  to  the  rich,  cosmopolitan  houses  and  hear 
the  tax-gatherer's  talk  and  see  the  young  Roman  captains 
swaggering  with  their  swords  and  making  eyes  at  Mary  of 
Magdala. 

He  was  the  sublimest  rebel  that  ever  lived. 

He  said,  "  The  spirit  blows  where  it  wills.  You  hear  the 
sound  of  it,  but  you  can't  tell  where  it  comes  from  or  where 
it  goes  to.  Everybody  that  is  born  from  the  spirit  is  like 
that."    The  spirit  blows  where  it  wants  to. 

He  said  it  was  a  good  thing  for  them  that  he  was  going 


320  MARY    OLIVIER:     A   LIFE 

away.  If  he  didn't  the  Holy  Ghost  wouldn't  come  to  them; 
they  would  never  have  any  real  selves;  they  would  never  be 
free.  They  would  set  him  up  as  a  god  outside  themselves 
and  worship  Him,  and  forget  that  the  Kingdom  of  God 
was  within  them,  that  God  was  their  real  self. 

Their  hidden  self  was  God.  It  was  their  Saviour.  Its 
existence  was  the  hushed  secret  of  the  world. 

Christ  knew  —  he  must  have  known  —  it  was  greater 
than  he  was. 

It  was  a  good  thing  for  them  that  Christ  died.  That  was 
how  he  saved  them.  By  going  away.  By  a  proud,  brave, 
ironic  death.  Not  at  all  the  sort  of  death  you  had  been 
taught  to  believe  in. 

And  because  they  couldn't  understand  a  death  like  that, 
they  went  and  made  a  god  of  him  just  the  same. 

But  the  Atonement  was  that  —  Christ's  going  away. 

n 

February:  grey,  black-bellied  clouds  crawling  over  Gref- 
fington  Edge,  over  Karva,  swelling  out:  swollen  bodies 
crawling  and  climbing,  coming  together,  joining.  Monstrous 
bodies  ballooning  up  behind  them,  mounting  on  top  of  them, 
flattening  them  out,  pressing  them  down  on  to  the  hills; 
going  on,  up  and  up  the  sky,  swelling  out  overhead,  coming 
together. 

One  cloud,  grey  as  sink  water,  over  all  the  sky,  shredded 
here  and  there,  stirred  by  slight  stretchings,  and  spoutings 
of  thin  steam. 

Then  the  whole  mass  coming  down,  streaming  grey  sink 
water. 

She  came  down  the  twelve  fields  on  the  south  slope  of 
Karva:  she  could  say  them  by  heart:  the  field  with  the 
big  gap,  the  field  above  the  four  firs  farm,  the  field  below 
the  farm  of  the  ash-trce,  the  bare  field,  the  field  with  the 
thorn  tree,  the  field  with  the  sheep's  well,  the  field  with  the 
wild  rose  bush,  the  steep  field  of  long  grass,  the  hillocky 
field,  the  haunted  field  with  the  ash  grove,  the  field  with 
the  big  barn,  the  last  field  with  the  gap  to  the  road. 

She  thought  of  her  thirty-four  years;  of  the  verses  she 


MATURITY  321 

had  sent  to  the  magazines  and  how  they  had  come  back 
again;  of  the  four  farms  on  the  hill,  of  the  four  tales  not 
written. 

The  wet  field  grasses  swept,  cold,  round  her  ankles. 

Manmia  sat  waiting  in  her  chair,  in  the  drawing-room, 
in  the  clear,  grey,  glassy  dusk  of  the  cross-lights.  She 
waited  for  the  fine  weather  to  come  when  she  would  work 
again  in  the  garden.  She  waited  for  you  to  come  to  her. 
Her  forehead  unknitted  itself;  her  dove's  eyes  brightened; 
she  smiled,  and  the  rough  feathers  of  her  eyebrows  lay 
down,  appeased. 

At  the  opening  of  the  door  she  stirred  in  her  chair.  She 
was  glad  when  you  came. 

Catty  brought  in  the  lamp.  When  she  turned  up  the 
wick  the  rising  flame  carved  Mamma's  face  out  of  the  dusk. 
Her  pretty  face,  delicately  dinted,  w-hitened  with  a  powdery 
down;  stained  with  faint  bistres  of  age.  Her  little,  high- 
bridged  nose  stood  up  from  the  softness,  clear  and  young, 
firm  as  ivory. 

The  globed  light  showed  like  a  ball  of  fire,  hung  out  in 
the  garden,  on  the  black,  glassy  darkness,  behind  the  pane. 
Catty  drew  down  the  blind  and  w^ent.  You  heard  the  click 
of  the  latch  falling  to  behind  her.    The  evening  had  begun. 

They  took  up  their  books.  Mamma  hid  her  face  behind 
Anthony  Trollope,  Mary  hers  behind  Thomas  Hardy.  Pres- 
ently she  would  hear  Mamma  sigh,  then  yawn. 

Horrible  tension. 

Under  the  edge  of  her  book  she  would  see  Anthony 
Trollope  lying  in  Mamma's  lap  and  IMamma's  fingers  play- 
ing with  the  fringe  of  her  shawl.  She  would  put  Thomas 
Hardy  down  and  take  up  Anthony  Trollope  and  read  aloud 
till  Mamma's  head  began  bowing  in  a  doze.  Then  she  would 
take  up  Thomas  Hardy.  When  Mamma  waked  Hardy 
would  go  down  under  Trollope;  when  she  dozed  he  would 
come  to  the  top  again. 

_  After  supper  Mamma  would  be  wide  awake.  She  would 
sit  straight  up  in  her  chair,  waiting,  motionless,  ready.  You 
would  pick  up  your  book  but  you  would  have  no  heart,  in  it. 
You  knew  what  she  wanted.  She  knew  that  you  knew. 
You  could  go  on  trying  to  read  if  you  chose;  but  she  would 


322  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

still  sit  there,  waiting.  You  would  know  what  she  was 
thinking  of. 

The  green  box  in  the  cabinet  drawer. 

The  green  box.  You  began  to  think  of  it,  too,  hidden, 
hidden  in  the  cabinet  drawer.  You  were  disturbed  by  the 
thought  of  the  green  box,  of  the  little  figures  inside  it,  white 
and  green.    You  would  get  up  and  go  to  the  cabinet  drawer. 

Mamma  would  put  out  her  hands  on  the  table,  ready. 
She  smiled  with  shut  lips,  pouting,  half  ashamed,  half  de- 
lighted. You  would  set  out  the  green  and  white  chequer 
board,  the  rows  of  pawns.  And  the  game  of  halma  would 
begin.  White  figures  leap-frogging  over  green,  green  over 
white.  Your  hand  and  your  eyes  playing,  your  brain  hang- 
ing inert,  remembering,  forgetting. 

In  the  pauses  of  the  game  you  waited;  for  the  clock  to 
strike  ten,  for  Catty  to  bring  in  the  Bible  and  the  Prayer- 
book,  for  the  evening  to  end.  Old  verses,  old  unfinished 
verses,  coming  and  going. 

In  the  long  pauses  of  the  game,  when  Mamma  sat  stone- 
still,  hypnotised  by  the  green  and  white  chequers,  her  curved 
hand  lifted,  holding  her  pawn,  her  head  quivering  with 
indecision. 

In  dreams  He  has  made  you  wise 

With  the  ivisdom  of  silence  and  prayer.  .  .  . 

Coming  and  going,  between  the  leap-frogging  of  the  green 
figures  and  the  white. 

God,  Who  has  blinded  your  eyes 
With  the  dusk  of  your  hair.  .  .  . 

Brown  hair,  sleek  and  thin,  brown  hair  that  wouldn't  go 
grey. 

And  the  evening  would  go  on,  soundless  and  calm,  with 
soft,  annihilating  feet,  with  the  soft,  cruel  feet  of  oblivion. 


Ill 

One  day,  when  she  came  in,  she  heard  the  sound  of  the 
piano.     The  knocking  of  loose  hammers  on  dead  wires,  the 


MATURITY  323 

light,  hacking  clang  of  chords  rolling  like  dead  drum  taps: 
Droom  —  Droom,  Droom-era-room. 

Alone  in  the  dusk,  Mamma  was  playing  the  Hungarian 
March,  bowing  and  swaying  as  she  played. 

When  the  door  opened  she  started  up,  turning  her  back 
on  the  piano,  frightened,  like  a  child  caught  in  a  play  it  is 
ashamed  of.     The  piano  looked  mournful  and  self-conscious. 

Then  suddenly,  all  by  itself,  it  shot  out  a  cry  like  an 
arrow,  a  pinging,  stinging,  violently  vibrating  cry. 

"  I'm  afraid,"  Mamma  said,  "  something's  happened  to  the 
piano." 

IV 

They  were  turning  out  the  cabinet  drawer,  when  they 
found  the  bundle  of  letters.  Mamma  had  marked  it  in  her 
sharp,  three  cornered  hand-writing:  "  Correspondence. 
Mary." 

"  Dear  me,"  she  said,  "  I  didn't  know  I'd  kept  those 
letters." 

She  slipped  them  from  the  rubber  band  and  looked  at 
them.  You  could  see  Uncle  Victor's  on  the  top,  then 
Maurice  Jourdain's.  You  heard  the  click  of  her  tongue  that 
dismissed  those  useless,  unimportant  things.  The  slim,  yel- 
lowish letter  at  the  bottom  was  Miss  Lambert's. 

"Tt-tt— " 

"  Oh,  let  me  see  that." 

She  looked  over  her  mother's  shoulder.  They  read 
together, 

"  We  don't  want  her  to  go.  .  .  .  She  made  us  love  her 
more  in  one  fortnight  than  girls  we've  had  with  us  for 
years.  .  .  .    Perhaps  some  day  we  may  have  her  again." 

The  poor,  kind  woman.  The  kind,  dead  woman.  Years 
ago  dead;  her  poor  voice  rising  up,  a  ghostlike  wail  over 
your  "  unbelief." 

That  was  only  the  way  she  began. 

"I  say  — I  say!" 

The  thin  voice  was  quivering  with  praise.  Incredible, 
bewildering  praise.  "  Remarkable  —  remarkable  "  —  You 
would  have  thought  there  had  never  been  such  a  remarkable 
child  as  Mary  Olivier. 


324  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

It  came  back  to  her.  She  could  see  Miss  Lambert  talking 
to  her  father  on  the  platform  at  Victoria.  She  could  see 
herself,  excited,  running  up  the  flagged  walk  at  Five  Elms. 
And  Mamma  coming  down  the  hall.  And  what  happened 
then.     The  shock  and  all  the  misery  that  came  after. 

"  That  was  the  letter  you  wouldn't  let  me  read." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  " 

"  The  da}^  I  came  back.  I  asked  you  to  let  me  read  it 
and  you  wouldn't." 

"  Really,  Mary,  you  accuse  me  of  the  most  awful  things. 
I  don't  believe  I  wouldn't  let  you  read  it." 

"  You  didn't.  I  remember.  You  didn't  want  me  to 
know  —  " 

"  Well,"  her  mother  said,  giving  in  suddenly,  "  if  I  didn't, 
it  was  because  I  thought  it  would  make  you  even  more 
conceited  than  you  were.  I  don't  suppose  I  was  very  well 
pleased  with  you  at  the  time." 

"Still  — you  kept  it." 

But  her  mother  was  not  even  going  to  admit  that  she 
had  kept  it. 

She  said,  "  I  must  have  overlooked  it.  But  we  can  burn 
it  now." 

She  carried  it  across  the  room  to  the  fire.  She  didn't 
want  even  now  —  even  now.  You  saw  again  the  old  way 
of  it,  her  little  obstinate,  triumphant  smile,  the  look  that 
paid  you  out,  that  said,  ''  See  how  I've  sold  you." 

The  violet  ashen  sheet  clung  to  the  furred  soot  of  the 
chimney:  you  could  still  see  the  blenched  letters. 

She  couldn't  really  have  thought  it  would  make  you  con- 
ceited. That  was  only  what  she  wanted  to  think  she  had 
thought. 

"  It  wasn't  easy  to  make  you  pleased  with  me  all  the  time. 
.  .  .     Still,  I  can't  think  why  on  earth  you  weren't  pleased." 

She  knelt  before  the  fire,  watching  the  violet  ashen  bit  of 
burnt-out  paper,  the  cause,  the  stupid  cause  of  it  all. 

Her  mother  had  settled  again,  placidly,  in  her  chair. 

"  Even  if  I  was  a  bit  conceited.  ...  I  don't  think  I  was, 
really.  I  only  wanted  to  know  whether  I  could  do  things. 
I  wanted  people  to  tell  me  just  because  I  didn't  know.  But 
even  if  I  was,  what  did  it  matter?  You  must  have  known 
I  loved  you  —  desperately  —  all  the  time." 


MATURITY  325 

"  I  didn't  know  it,  Mary." 

"  Then  you  were  stup  —  " 

"  Oh,  say  I  was  stupid.  It's  what  you  think.  It's  what 
you  always  have  thought." 

"  You  were  —  you  were,  if  you  didn't  see  it." 

"  See  what?  " 

"  How  I  cared  —  I  can  remember  —  when  I  was  a  kid  — 
the  awful  feeling.     It  used  to  make  me  ill." 

"  I  didn't  know  that.  If  you  did  care  you'd  a  queer  way 
of  showing  it." 

"  That  w^as  because  I  thought  you  didn't." 

"  Who  told  you  I  didn't  care  for  you?  " 

"  I  didn't  need  to  be  told.     I  could  see  the  difference." 

Her  mother  sat  fixed  in  a  curious  stillness.  She  held  her 
elbows  pressed  tight  against  her  sides.  Her  face  was  hard 
and  still.     Her  eyes  looked  away  across  the  room. 

"  You  were  different,"  she  said.  "  You  weren't  like  any 
of  the  others.  I  was  afraid  of  you.  You  used  to  look  at  me 
with  your  little  bright  eyes,  I  felt  as  if  you  knew  every- 
thing I  was  thinking.  I  never  knew  what  you'd  say  or  do 
next." 

No.  Her  face  wasn't  hard.  There  was  something  else. 
Something  clear.     Clear  and  beautiful. 

"  I  suppose  I  —  I  didn't  like  your  being  clever.  It  was 
the  boys  I  wanted  to  do  things.     Not  you." 

"  Don't  —  Mamma  darling  —  don't." 

The  stiff,  tight  body  let  go  its  hold  of  itself.  The  eyes 
turned  to  her  again. 

"  I  was  jealous  of  you,  Mary.  And  I  was  afraid  for  my 
life  you'd  find  it  out." 


Eighteen  ninety-eight.  Eighteen  ninety-nine.  Nineteen 
hundred.  Thirty-five  —  thirty-six  —  thirty-seven.  Three 
years.  Her  mind  kept  on  stretching;  it  held  three  years  in 
one  spaa  like  one  year.  The  large  rhythm  of  time  appeased 
and  exalted  her. 

In  the  long  summers  while  Mamma  worked  in  the  garden 
she  translated  Euripides. 


326  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

The  Bacchm.  You  could  do  it  after  you  had  read  Wa/t 
Whitman.  If  you  gave  up  the  superstition  of  singing;  the 
little  tunes  of  rhyme.  If  you  left  off  that  eternal  jingling 
and  listened,  you  could  hear  what  it  ought  to  be. 

Something  between  talking  and  singing.  If  you  wrote 
verse  that  could  be  chanted:  that  could  be  whispered, 
shouted,  screamed  as  they  moved.  Agave  and  her  Maenads. 
Verse  that  would  go  with  a  throbbing  beat,  excited,  exciting ; 
beyond  rhyme.     That  would  be  nearest  to  the  Greek  verse. 

•  •••••• 

September,  nineteen  hundred. 

Across  the  room  she  could  see  the  pale  buff-coloured 
magazine,  on  the  table  where,  five  minutes  ago.  Mamma  had 
laid  it  down.  She  could  see  the  black  letters  of  its  title 
and  the  squat  column  of  the  table  of  contents.  The  maga- 
zine with  her  poem  in  it. 

And  Mamma,  sitting  very  straight,  very  still. 

You  would  never  know  what  she  was  thinking.  She 
hadn't  said  anything.  You  couldn't  tell  whether  she  was 
glad  or  sorry;  or  whether  she  was  afraid. 

The  air  tingled  with  the  thought  of  the  magazine  with 
your  poem  in  it.  But  you  would  never  know  what  she  was 
thinking. 

VI 

A  long  letter  from  Uncle  Edward.  Uncle  Edward  was 
worrying  Mamma. 

"  He  never  could  get  on  with  your  poor  father.  Or  your 
Uncle  Victor.  He  did  his  best  to  prevent  him  being  made 
trustee.  .  .  .  And  now  he  comes  meddling,  wanting  to  upset 
all  their  arrangements." 

"Why?" 

"  Just  because  poor  Victor's  business  isn't  doing  quite  so 
well  as  it  did." 

"  Yes,  but  why's  he  bothering  you  about  it?  " 

"  Well,  he  says  I  ought  to  make  another  will,  leaving  half 
the  boys'  money  to  you.  That  would  be  taking  it  from 
Dan.     He  always  had  a  grudge  against  poor  Dan." 

"  But  you  mustn't  do  anything  of  the  sort." 


MATURITY  327 

"  Well  —  he  knows  your  father  provided  for  3'ou.  You're 
to  have  the  Five  Elms  money  that's  in  your  Uncle  Victor's 
business.  You'd  suppose,  to  hear  him  talk,  that  it  wasn't 
safe  there." 

"  Just  tell  him  to  mind  his  own  business,"  Mary  said. 

"  Actually,"  Mamma  went  on,  "  advising  me  not  to  pay 
back  any  more  of  Victor's  money.  I  shall  tell  him  I  sent 
the  last  of  it  yesterday." 

There  would  be  no  more  debts  to  Uncle  Victor,  Mark 
had  paid  back  his;  Mamma  had  paid  back  Roddy's,  scraping 
and  scraping,  Mark  and  Mamma,  over  ten  years,  over 
twenty. 

A  long  letter  from  Uncle  Victor.  Uncle  Victor  was  wor- 
rying Mamma. 

"  Don't  imagine  that  I  shall  take  this  money.  I  have 
invested  it  for  you,  in  sound  securities.  Not  in  my  own 
business.  That,  I  am  afraid  I  ought  to  tell  you,  is  no 
longer  a  sound  security." 

"Poor  Victor  —  " 

"  It  almost  looks,"  Mamma  said,  "  as  if  Edward  might 
be  right." 

So  right  that  in  his  next  letter  Uncle  Victor  prepared  you 
for  his  bankruptcy. 

"  It  will  not  affect  you  and  Mary,"  he  wrote.  "  I  may  as 
well  tell  you  now  that  all  the  Five  Elms  money  has  been 
reinvested,  and  is  safe.  As  for  myself,  I  can  assure  you 
that,  after  the  appalling  anxiety  of  the  last  ten  years,  the 
thought  of  bankruptcv  is  a  relief.  A  blessed  relief,  Caro- 
line." 

All  through  September  and  October  the  long  letters  came 
from  Uncle  Victor. 

Then  Aunt  Lavvy's  short  letter  that  told  you  of  his  death. 

Then  the  lawyer's  letters. 

It  seemed  that,  after  all,  Uncle  Victor  had  been  mistaken. 
His  affairs  were  in  perfect  order. 

Only  the  Five  Elms  money  was  gone;  and  the  money 
Mark  and  Mamma  had  paid  back  to  him.  He  had  taken 
it  all  out  of  his  own  business,  and  put  it  into  the  Sheba 
Mines  and  Joe's  Reef,  and  the  Golconda  Company  where 
he  thought  it  would  be  safe. 

The  poor  dear.    The  poor  dear. 


328  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

VII 

So  that  you  knew  — 

Mamma  might  believe  what  Aunt  Lavvy  told  her,  that  he 
had  only  gone  to  look  out  of  the  window  and  had  turned 
giddy.  Aunt  Lavvy  might  believe  that  he  didn't  know  what 
he  was  doing. 

But  you  knew. 

He  had  been  afraid.  Afraid.  He  wouldn't  go  up  to  the 
top-landing  after  they  took  Aunt  Charlotte  away;  because 
he  was  afraid. 

Then,  at  last,  after  all  those  years,  he  had  gone  up. 
When  he  knew  he  was  caught  in  the  net  and  couldn't  get 
out.  He  had  found  that  they  had  moved  the  linen  cupboard 
from  the  window  back  into  the  night  nursery.  And  he  had 
bolted  the  staircase  door  on  himself.  He  had  shut  himself 
up.  And  the  great  bare,  high  window  was  there.  And  the 
low  sill.  And  the  steep,  bare  wall,  dropping  to  the  lane 
below. 


END  OF  BOOK  FOUR 


BOOK   FIVE 

MIDDLE-AGE 
1900-1910 


BOOK   FIVE 

MIDDLE-AGE 
XXXI 


She  must  have  been  sitting  there  twenty  minutes. 

She  was  afraid  to  look  up  at  the  clock,  afraid  to  move 
an  eyelid  lest  she  should  disturb  him. 

The  library  had  the  same  nice,  leathery,  tobaccoey  smell. 
Rough  under  her  fingers  the  same  little  sharp  tongue  of 
leather  scratched  up  from  the  arm  of  her  chair.  The  hang- 
ing, half-open  fans  of  the  ash-tree  would  be  making  the  same 
Japanese  pattern  in  the  top  left  hand  pane  of  the  third 
window.  She  wanted  to  see  it  again  to  make  sure  of  the 
pattern,  but  she  was  afraid  to  look  up. 

If  she  looked  up  she  would  see  him. 

She  mustn't.  It  would  disturb  him  horribly.  He  couldn't 
write  if  he  thought  you  were  looking  at  him. 

It  was  wonderful  that  he  could  go  on  like  that,  with  some- 
body in  the  room,  that  he  let  you  sit  in  it  when  he  was 
writing.     The  big  man. 

She  had  asked  him  whether  she  hadn't  better  go  away 
and  come  back  again,  and  he  had  said  No,  he  didn't  want 
her  to  go  away.  He  wouldn't  keep  her  waiting  more  than 
five  minutes. 

It  was  unbelievable  that  she  should  be  sitting  there,  in 
that  room,  as  if  nothing  had  happened;  as  if  they  were 
there;  as  if  they  might  come  in  any  minute;  as  if  they  had 
never  gone.  A  week  ago  she  would  have  said  it  was  impos- 
sible, she  couldn't  do  it,  for  anybody,  no  matter  how  big  or 
how  celebrated  he  was. 

Why,    after   ten   years  —  it   must    be    ten   years  —  she 

331 


332  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

couldn't  even  bear  to  go  past  the  house  while  other  people 
were  in  it.  She  hated  them,  the  people  who  took  Greflfington 
Hall  for  the  summer  holidays  and  the  autumn  shooting. 
She  would  go  round  to  Renton  by  Jackson's  yard  and  the 
fields  so  as  not  to  see  it.  But  when  the  brutes  were  gone  and 
the  yellow  blinds  were  down  in  the  long  rows  of  windows 
that  you  saw  above  the  grey  garden  wall,  she  liked  to  pass 
it  and  look  up  and  pretend  that  the  house  was  only  waiting 
for  them,  only  sleeping  its  usual  winter  sleep,  resting  till 
they  came  back. 

It  was  ten  years  since  they  had  gone. 

No.  If  Richard  Nicholson  hadn't  been  Mr.  Sutcliffe's 
nephew,  she  couldn't,  no  matter  how  big  and  how  celebrated 
he  was,  or  how  badly  he  wanted  her  help  or  she  wanted  his 
money. 

No  matter  how  wonderful  and  important  it  would  feel  to 
be  Richard  Nicholson's  secretary. 

It  wasn't  really  his  money  that  she  wanted.  It  would  be 
worth  while  doing  it  for  nothing,  for  the  sake  of  knowing 
him.     She  had  read  his  Euripides. 

She  wondered:  Supposing  he  kept  her,  how  long  would  it 
last?  He  was  in  the  middle  of  his  First  Series  of  Studies 
in  Greek  Literature;  and  there  would  be  two,  or  even  three 
if  he  went  on. 

He  had  taken  Greffington  Hall  for  four  months.  When 
he  went  back  to  London  he  would  have  to  have  somebody 
else. 

Perhaps  he  would  tell  her  that,  after  thinking  it  over,  he 
had  found  he  didn't  want  her.  Then  to-day  would  be  the 
end  of  it. 

If  she  looked  up  she  would  see  him. 

She  knew  what  she  would  see:  the  fine,  cross  upper  lip 
lifted  backwards  by  the  moustache,  the  small  grizzled  brown 
moustache,  turned  up,  that  made  it  look  crosser.  The  nar- 
row, pensive  lower  lip,  thrust  out  by  its  light  jaw.  His 
nose  —  quite  a  young  nose  —  that  wouldn't  be  Roman, 
wouldn't  be  Sutcliffe;  it  looked  out  over  your  head,  tilted 
itself  up  to  sniff  the  world,  obstinate,  alert.  His  eyes,  young 
too,  bright  and  dark,  sheltered,  safe  from  age  under  the  low 
straight  eyebrows.    They  would  never  have  shabby,  wrinkled 


MIDDLE-AGE  333 

sagging  lids.  Dark  brown  hair,  grey  above  his  ears,  clipped 
close  to  stop  its  curling  like  his  uncle's.  He  liked  to  go 
clipped  and  clean.  You  felt  that  he  liked  his  own  tall, 
straight  slenderness. 

The  big  library  rustled  with  the  quick,  irritable  sound  of 
his  writing. 

It  stopped.  He  had  finished.  He  looked  at  the  clock. 
She  heard  a  small,  commiserating  sound. 

''  Forgive  me.  I  really  thought  it  would  only  take  five 
minutes.  How  on  earth  do  you  manage  to  keep  so  quiet? 
I  should  have  known  if  a  mouse  had  moved." 

He  turned  towards  her.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 
"  You  don't  mind  my  smoking?  " 

He  was  settling  himself.     Now  she  would  know. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  if  I  did  keep  you  waiting  forty  minutes, 
it  was  a  good  test,  wasn't  it?  " 

He  meditated. 

"  I'm  always  changing  my  secretaries  because  of  some- 
thing. The  last  one  was  admirable,  but  I  couldn't  have 
stood  her  in  the  room  when  I  was  writing.  .  .  .  Besides, 
you  work  better." 

"  Can  you  tell?    In  a  week?  " 

"  Yes.  I  can  tell.  .  .  .  Are  you  sure  you  can  spare  me 
four  months?  " 

"  Easily." 

''Five?    Six?" 

"  If  you  were  still  here." 

"  I  shan't  be.  I  shall  be  in  London.  .  .  .  Couldn't  you 
come  up?  " 

"  I  couldn't,  possibly." 

His  cross  mouth  and  brilliant,  irritated  eyes  questioned 
her. 

"  I  couldn't  leave  my  mother." 

n 

Five  weeks  of  the  four  months  gone.  And  to-morrow 
he  was  going  up  to  London. 

Only  till  Friday.  Only  for  five  days.  She  kept  on 
telling  herself  he  would  stay  longer.     Once  he  was  there  you 


334  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

couldn't  tell  how  many  days  he  might  stay.  But  say  he 
didn't  come  back  till  the  middle  of  July,  still  there  would 
be  the  rest  of  July  and  all  August  and  September. 

To-day  he  was  walking  home  with  her,  carrying  the 
books.  She  liked  walking  with  him,  she  liked  to  be  seen 
walking  with  him,  as  she  used  to  like  being  seen  walking 
with  Roddy  and  Mark,  because  she  was  proud  of  them, 
proud  of  belonging  to  them.  She  was  proud  of  Richard 
Nicholson  because  of  what  he  had  done. 

The  Morfe  people  didn't  know  anything  about  what  he 
had  done;  but  they  knew  he  was  something  wonderful  and 
important ;  they  knew  it  was  wonderful  and  important  that 
you  should  be  his  secretary.  They  were  proud  of  you,  glad 
that  they  had  provided  him  with  you,  proud  that  he  should 
have  found  what  he  was  looking  for  in  Morfe, 

Mr.  Belk,  for  instance,  coming  along  the  road.  He  used 
to  pass  you  with  a  jaunty,  gallant,  curious  look  as  if  you 
were  seventeen  and  he  were  saying,  "  There's  a  girl  who 
ought  to  be  married.  Why  isn't  she?  "  He  had  just  sidled 
past  them,  abashed  and  obsequious,  a  little  afraid  of  the 
big  man.     Even  Mrs.  Belk  was  obsequious. 

And  Mr,  Spencer  Rollitt.  He  was  proud  because  Richard 
Nicholson  had  asked  him  about  a  secretary  and  he  had 
recommended  you.  Funny  that  people  could  go  on  dis- 
approving of  you  for  twenty  years,  and  then  suddenly 
approve  because  of  Richard  Nicholson. 

And  Mamma.  Mamma  thought  you  wonderful  and  im- 
portant, too. 

Mamma  liked  Mr.  Nicholson.  Ever  since  that  Sunday 
when  he  had  called  and  brought  the  roses  and  stayed  to  tea. 
She  had  gone  out  of  the  room  and  left  them  abruptly  because 
she  was  afraid  of  his  "  cleverness,"  afraid  that  he  would 
begin  to  talk  about  something  that  she  didn't  understand. 

And  he  had  said,  "  How  beautiful  she  is  —  " 

After  he  had  gone  she  had  told  Mamma  that  Richard 
Nicholson  had  said  she  was  beautiful;  and  Mamma  had 
pretended  that  it  didn't  matter  what  he  said;  but  she  had 
smiled  all  the  same. 

He  carried  himself  like  Mr.  Sutclif!e  when  he  walked, 
straight  and  tall  in  his  clean  cut  grey  suit.    Only  he  was 


MIDDLE-AGE  335 

lighter  and  leaner.     His  eyes  looked  gentle  and  peaceable 
now  under  the  shadow  of  the  Panama  hat. 

The  front  door  stood  open.  She  asked  him  to  come  in 
for  tea. 

"  May  I?  .  .  .    What  are  you  doing  afterwards?  " 

"  Going  for  a  walk  somewhere." 

"  Will  you  let  me  come  too?  "... 

He  was  standing  by  the  window  looking  at  the  garden. 
She  saw  him  smile  when  he  heard  Catty  say  that  Mamma 
had  gone  over  to  Mrs.  Waugh's  and  wouldn't  be  back  for 
tea.  He  smiled  to  himself,  a  secret,  happy  smile,  looking 
out  into  the  garden.  .  .  .  She  took  him  out  through  the 
orchard.  He  went  stooping  under  the  low  apple  boughs  and 
laughing.  Down  the  Back  Lane  and  through  the  gap  in  the 
lower  fields,  along  the  flagged  path  to  the  Bottom  Lane  and 
through  the  Rathdale  fields  to  the  river.  Over  the  stepping 
stones. 

She  took  the  stones  at  a  striding  run.  He  followed,  run- 
ning and  laughing. 

Up  the  Rathdale  fields  to  Kenton  Moor.  Not  up  the 
schoolhouse  lane,  or  on  the  Garthdale  Road,  or  along  the 
fields  by  the  beck.  Not  up  Greffington  Edge  or  Karva. 
Because  of  Lindley  Vickers  and  Maurice  Jourdain;  and 
Roddy  and  Mark. 

No.  She  was  humbugging  herself.  Not  up  Karva  be- 
cause of  her  secret  happiness.  She  didn't  want  to  mix  him 
up  with  that  or  with  the  self  that  had  felt  it.  She  wanted 
to  keep  him  in  the  clear  spaces  of  her  mind,  away  from  her 
memories,  away  from  her  emotions. 

They  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  moor  in  the  heather. 

Indoors  when  he  was  working  he  was  irritable  and  rest- 
less. You  would  hear  a  gentle  sighing  sound:  "  D-amn  "; 
and  he  would  start  up  and  walk  about  the  room.  There 
would  be  shakings  of  his  head,  twistings  of  his  eyebrows, 
shruggings  of  his  shoulders,  and  tormented  gestures  of  his 
hands.  But  not  out  here.  He  sat  in  the  heather  as  quiet, 
as  motionless  as  you  were,  every  muscle  at  rest.  His  mind 
was  at  rest. 

The  strong  sunlight  beat  on  him;  it  showed  up  small  sur- 
face signs.  Perhaps  you  could  see  now  that  he  might  really 
be  forty,  or  even  forty-five. 


336  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

No,  you  couldn't.  You  couldn't  see  or  feel  anything  but 
the  burning,  inextinguishable  youth  inside  him.  The  little  grey 
streaks  and  patches  might  have  been  powder  put  on  for  fun. 

"  I  want  to  finish  with  all  my  Greek  stuff,"  he  said  sud- 
denly. "  I  want  to  go  on  to  something  else  —  studies  in 
modern  French  literature.  Then  English.  I  want  to  get 
everything  clean  and  straight  in  five  pages  where  other 
people  would  take  fifty.  ...  I  want  to  go  smash  through 
some  of  the  traditions.  The  tradition  of  the  long,  grey 
paragraph.  .  .  .  We  might  learn  things  from  France. 
But  we're  a  proud  island  people.  We  won't  learn.  .  .  . 
We're  a  proud  island  people,  held  in  too  tight,  held  in 
till  we  burst.  That's  why  we've  no  aesthetic  restraint.  No 
restraint  of  any  sort.  Take  our  economics.  Take  our 
politics.  We've  had  to  colonise,  to  burst  out  over  conti- 
nents. When  our  minds  begin  moving  it's  the  same  thing. 
They  burst  out.  All  over  the  place.  .  .  .  When  we've 
learned  restraint  we  shall  take  our  place  inside  Europe,  not 
outside  it." 

"  We  do  restrain  our  emotions  quite  a  lot." 

"  We  do.  We  do.  That's  precisely  why  we  don't  re- 
strain our  expression  of  them.  Really  unrestrained  emotion 
that  forces  its  way  through  and  breaks  down  your  intellec- 
tual defences  and  saturates  you  with  itself  —  it  hasn't  any 
words.  ...    It  hasn't  any  words;  or  very  few." 

The  mown  fields  over  there,  below  Greffington  Edge,  were 
bleached  with  the  sun:  the  grey  cliffs  quivered  in  the  hot 
yellow  light. 

"  It  might  be  somewhere  in  the  South  of  France." 

"  Not  Agaye." 

"  No.  Not  Agaye.  The  limestone  country.  ...  I  can't 
think  why  I  never  came  here.  My  uncle  used  to  ask  me 
dozens  of  times.  I  suppose  I  funked  it.  .  .  .  What  the 
poor  old  chap  must  have  felt  like  shut  up  in  that  house  all 
those  years  with  my  aunt  —  " 

"  Please  don't.     I  —  I  liked  her." 

"  You  mean  you  liked  him  and  put  up  with  her  because 
of  him.     We  all  did  that." 

"  She  was  kind  to  me." 

"  Who  wouldn't  be?  " 


MIDDLE-AGE  337 

"  Oh,  but  you  don't  know  how  kind." 

"Kind?  Good  Lord,  yes.  There  are  millions  of  kind 
people  in  the  world.  It's  possible  to  be  kind  and  at  the 
same  time  not  entirely  brainless." 

"  He  wouldn't  mind  that.  He  wouldn't  think  she  was 
brainless  —  " 

"  He  wasn't  in  love  with  her  —  there  was  another  woman 
—  a  girl.  It  was  so  like  the  dear  old  duffer  to  put  it  off  till 
he  was  forty-five  and  then  come  a  cropper  over  a  little  girl 
of  seventeen." 

"  That  isn't  true.  I  knew  him  much  better  than  you  do. 
He  never  cared  for  anybody  but  her.  .  .  .  Besides,  if  it  was 
true  you  shouldn't  have  told  mc.  I've  no  business  to  know 
it."  ... 

"  Everybody  knew  it.  The  poor  dear  managed  so  badly 
that  everybody  in  the  place  knew  it.  She  knew,  that's  why 
she  dragged  him  away  and  made  him  live  abroad.  She 
hated  living  abroad,  but  she  liked  it  better  than  seeing  him 
going  to  pieces  over  the  girl." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  If  there  was  anything  in  it  I'd  have 
been  sure  to  have  heard  of  it.  .  .  .  Why,  there  wasn't  any- 
body here  but  me  —  " 

"  It  must  have  been  years  before  your  time,"  he  said. 
"  You  could  hardly  even  have  come  in  for  the  sad  end  of  it." 

Dorsy  Heron  said  it  was  true. 

**  It  was  you  he  was  in  love  with.  Everybody  saw  it  but 
you." 

She  remembered.  His  face  when  she  came  to  him.  In 
the  library.     And  what  he  had  said. 

"  A  man  might  be  in  love  with  you  for  ten  years  and 
you  wouldn't  know  about  it  if  he  held  his  tongue." 

And  her  face.  Her  poor  face,  so  worried  when  people 
saw  them  together.  And  that  last  night  when  she  stroked 
your  arm  and  when  she  saw  him  looking  at  it  and  stopped. 
And  her  eyes.     Frightened.     Frightened. 

"  How  I  must  have  hurt  him.  How  I  must  have  hurt 
them  both." 

Mr.  Nicholson  had  come  back  on  Friday  as  he  had  said. 


338  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


ni 

He  put  down  his  scratching  pen  and  was  leaning  back  in 
his  chair,  looking  at  her. 

She  wondered  what  he  was  thinking.  Sometimes  the 
space  of  the  room  was  enormous  between  her  table  by  the 
first  tall  window  and  his  by  the  third;  sometimes  it  shrank 
and  brought  them  close.     It  was  bringing  them  close  now. 

"  You  can't  see  the  text  for  the  footnotes/'  she  said. 
"  The  notes  must  go  in  the  Appendix." 

She  wanted  to  make  herself  forget  that  all  her  own  things, 
the  things  she  had  saved  from  the  last  burning,  were  lying 
there  on  his  table,  staring  at  her.  She  was  trying  not  to 
look  that  way,  not  to  let  herself  imagine  for  a  moment  that 
he  had  read  them. 

"  Never  mind  the  notes  and  the  Appendix." 

He  had  got  up.  He  was  leaning  now  against  the  tall 
shutter  of  her  window,  looking  down  at  her. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me?  Before  I  let  you  in  for  that 
horrible  drudgery?  All  that  typing  and  indexing  —  If  I'd 
only  known  you  were  doing  anything  like  this.  .  .  .  Why 
couldn't  you  have  told  me?  " 

"  Because  I  wasn't  doing  it.     It  was  done  ages  ago." 

"  It's  my  fault.  I  ought  to  have  known.  I  did  know 
there  was  something.  I  ought  to  have  attended  to  it  and 
found  out  what  it  was." 

He  began  walking  up  and  down  the  room,  turning  on  her 
again  and  again,  making  himself  more  and  more  excited. 

"  That  translation  of  the  Bacchce  —  what  made  you  think 
of  doing  it  like  that?  " 

"  I'd  been  reading  Walt  Whitman  —  It  showed  me  you 
could  do  without  rhyme.  I  knew  it  must  sound  as  if  it  was 
all  spoken  —  chanted  —  that  they  mustn't  sing.  Then  I 
thought  perhaps  that  was  the  way  to  do  it." 

"  Yes.  Yes.  It  is  the  way  to  do  it.  The  only  way.  .  .  . 
You  see,  that's  what  my  Euripides  book's  about.  The  very 
thing  I've  been  trying  to  ram  down  people's  throats,  for 
years.  And  all  the  time  you  were  doing  it  —  down  here  — 
all  by  yourself  — for  fun.  ...  I  wish  I'd  known.  .  .  . 
What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  " 


MIDDLE-AGE  339 

*'  I  didn't  think  anything  could  be  done." 
He  sat  down  to  consider  that  part  of  it. 

•  •«•••• 

He  was  going  to  get  it  published  for  her. 

He  was  going  to  write  the  Introduction. 

"  And  — the  other  things?  " 

"  Oh,  well,  that's  another  matter.  There's  not  much  of 
it  that'll  stand." 

He  knew.  He  w^ould  never  say  more  or  less  than  he 
meant. 

Not  much  of  it  that  would  stand.  Now  that  she  knew, 
it  was  extraordinary  how  little  she  minded. 

"  Still,  there  are  a  few  things.  They  must  come  out  first. 
In  the  spring.  Then  the  Bacchce  in  the  autumn.  I  want  it 
to  be  clear  from  the  start  that  you're  a  poet  translating ;  not 
the  other  way  on." 

He  walked  home  with  her,  discussing  gravely  how  it 
would  be  done. 

rv 

It  had  come  without  surprise,  almost  without  excitement; 
the  quiet  happening  of  something  secretly  foreseen,  present 
to  her  mind  as  long  as  she  could  remember. 

"  I  always  meant  that  this  should  happen:  something 
like  this." 

Now  that  it  had  happened  she  was  afraid,  seeing,  but  not 
so  clearly,  what  would  come  afterwards:  something  that 
would  make  her  want  to  leave  Morfe  and  Mamma  and  go 
away  to  London  and  know  the  people  Richard  Nicholson  had 
told  her  about,  the  people  who  would  care  for  what  she  had 
done;  the  people  who  were  doing  the  things  she  cared  about. 
To  talk  to  them;  to  hear  them  talk.  She  was  afraid  of 
wanting  that  more  than  anything  in  the  world. 

She  saw  her  fear  first  in  Mamma's  eyes  when  she  told 
her. 

And  there  was  something  else.  Something  to  do  with 
Richard  Nicholson.  Something  she  didn't  want  to  think 
about.  Not  fear  exactly,  but  a  sort  of  uneasiness  when  she 
thought  about  him. 

His  mind  really  was  the  enormous,  perfect  crystal  she 


340  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

had  imagined.  It  had  been  brought  close  to  her;  she  had 
turned  it  in  her  hand  and  seen  it  flash  and  shine.  She  had 
looked  into  it  and  seen  beautiful,  clear  things  in  it:  nothing 
that  wasn't  beautiful  and  clear.  She  was  afraid  of  wanting 
to  look  at  it  again  when  it  wasn't  there.  Because  it  had 
made  her  happy  she  might  come  to  want  it  more  than 
anything  in  the  world. 

In  two  weeks  it  would  be  gone.    She  would  want  it  and 
it  would  not  be  there. 


When  she  passed  the  house  and  saw  the  long  rows  of 
yellow  blinds  in  the  grey  front  she  thought  of  him.  He 
would  not  come  back.  He  had  never  come  before,  so  it 
wasn't  likely  he  would  come  again. 

His  being  there  was  one  of  the  things  that  only  happened 
once.  Perhaps  those  were  the  perfect  things,  the  things  that 
would  never  pass  away ;  they  would  stay  for  ever,  beautiful 
as  you  had  seen  them,  fixed  in  their  moment  of  perfection, 
wearing  the  very  air  and  light  of  it  for  ever. 

You  would  see  them  sub  specie  ceternitatis.  Under  the 
form  of  eternity. 

So  that  Richard  Nicholson  would  always  be  like  that, 
the  same  whenever  you  thought  of  him. 

Look  at  the  others:  the  ones  that  hadn't  come  back  and 
the  ones  that  had.  Jimmy  Ponsonby,  Harry  Craven,  Mr. 
Sutcliffe,  And  Maurice  Jourdain  and  Lindley  Vickers.  If 
Maurice  Jourdain  had  never  come  back  she  would  always 
have  seen  him  standing  in  the  cornfield.  If  Lindley  Vickers 
had  never  come  back  she  wouldn't  have  seen  him  with 
Nannie  Learoyd  in  the  schoolhouse  lane;  the  moment  when 
he  held  her  hands  in  the  drawing-room,  standing  by  the 
piano,  would  have  been  their  one  eternal  moment. 

Because  Jimmy  Ponsonby  had  gone  away  she  had  never 
known  the  awful  thing  he  had  done.  She  would  go  through 
the  Ilford  fields  for  ever  and  ever  with  her  hot  hand  in  his; 
she  happy  and  he  innocent;  innocent  for  ever  and  ever. 
Harry  Craven,  her  playmate  of  two  hours,  he  would  always 
be  playing,  always  laughing,  always  holding  her  hand,  like 
Roddy,  without  knowing  that  he  held  it. 


MIDDLE-AGE  341 

Suppose  Mr.  Sutcliffe  had  come  back.  She  would  have 
hurt  them  more  and  more.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  would  have  hated 
her.  They  would  have  been  miserable,  all  three.  All  three 
damned  for  ever  and  ever. 

She  was  not  sure  she  wanted  Richard  Nicholson  to  come 
back. 

She  was  not  sure  he  wasn't  spoiling  it  by  writing.  She 
hadn't  thought  he  would  do  that. 

A  correspondence?  Prolonging  the  beautiful  moment, 
stretching  it  thin;  thinner  and  thinner;  stretching  it  so  thin 
that  it  would  snap?  You  would  come  to  identify  him  with 
his  letters,  so  that  in  the  end  you  would  lose  what  had  been 
real,  what  had  been  perfect.  You  would  forget.  You  would 
have  another  and  less  real  kind  of  memory. 

But  his  letters  were  not  thin;  they  were  as  real  as  his 
voice.  They  were  his  voice  talking  to  you;  you  could  tell 
which  words  would  take  the  stress  of  it.  "  I^  don't  know 
how  much  there  is  of  you,  whether  this  is  all  of  it  or  only  a 
little  bit.  You  gave  me  an  impression  —  you  made  me  feel 
that  there  might  be  any  amount  gone  under  that  you  can't 
get  at,  that  you  may  never  get  at  if  you  go  on  staying  where 
you  are.  I  believe  if  you  got  clean  away  it  might  come  to 
the  top  again. 

"  But  I  don't  know.  I  don't  know  w^hether  you're  at  the 
end  or  the  beginning.     I  could  tell  better  if  you  w^ere  here." 

She  counted  the  months  till  April  when  her  poems  would 
come  out.  She  counted  the  days  till  Tuesday  when  there 
might  be  a  letter  from  Richard  Nicholson. 

If  only  he  would  not  keep  on  telling  you  you  ought  to 
come  to  London.  That  was  what  made  you  afraid.  He 
might  have  seen  how  impossible  it  was.  He  had  seen 
Mamma. 

"  Don't  try  to  dig  me  out  of  my  '  hole.'  I  can  '  go  on 
living  in  it  for  ever  '  if  I'm  never  taken  out.  But  if  I  got 
out  once  it  would  be  awful  coming  back.  It  isn't  awful 
now.    Don't  make  it  awful." 

He  only  wrote:  "  I'll  make  it  awfuller  and  awixiller,  until 
out  you  come." 


342  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

XXXII 


Things  were  happening  in  the  village. 

The  old  people  were  dying.  Mr.  James  had  died  in  a  fit 
the  day  after  Christmas  Day.  Old  Mrs.  Heron  had  died  of 
a  stroke  in  the  first  week  of  January.  She  had  left  Dorsy 
her  house  and  furniture  and  seventy  pounds  a  year.  Mrs. 
Belk  got  the  rest. 

The  middle-aged  people  were  growing  old.  Louisa 
Wright's  hair  hung  in  a  limp  white  fold  over  each  ear,  her 
face  had  tight  lines  in  it  that  pulled  it  into  grimaces,  her 
eyes  had  milky  white  rings  like  speedwell  when  it  begins 
to  fade.  Porsy  Heron's  otter  brown  hair  was  striped  with 
grey;  her  nose  stood  up  sharp  and  bleak  in  her  red,  wither- 
ing face;  her  sharp,  tender  mouth  drooped  at  the  corners. 
She  was  forty-nine. 

It  was  cruel,  cruel,  cruel;  it  hurt  you  to  see  them.  Rather 
than  own  it  was  cruel  they  went  about  pulling  faces  and  pre- 
tending they  were  happy.  Their  gestures  had  become  exag- 
gerated, tricks  that  they  would  never  grow  out  of,  that 
gave  them  the  illusion  of  their  youth. 

The  old  people  were  dying  and  the  middle-aged  people 
were  growing  old.  Nothing  would  ever  begin  for  them 
again. 

Each  morning  when  she  got  out  of  bed  she  had  the 
sacred,  solemn  certainty  that  for  her  everything  was  begin- 
ning.   At  thirty-nine. 

What  was  thirty-nine?  A  time-feeling,  a  feeling  she 
hadn't  got.  If  you  haven't  got  the  feeling  you  are  not 
thirty-nine.  You  can  be  any  age  you  please,  twenty-nine, 
nineteen. 

But  she  had  been  horribly  old  at  nineteen.  She  could 
remember  what  it  had  felt  like,  the  desperate,  middle-aged 
sadness,  the  middle-aged  certainty  that  nothing  interesting 
would  ever  happen.  She  had  got  hold  of  life  at  the  wrong 
end. 

And  all  the  time  her  youth  had  been  waiting  for  her  at 
the  other  end,  at  the  turn  of  the  unknown  road,  at  thirty- 


MIDDLE-AGE  343 

nine.  All  through  the  autumn  and  winter  Richard  Nicholson 
had  kept  on  writing.  Her  poems  would  be  out  on  the  tenth 
of  April. 

On  the  third  the  note  came. 

"  Shall  I  still  find  you  at  Morfe  if  I  come  down  this 
week-end?  — R.N." 

"  You  will  never  find  me  anywhere  else.  —  M.  O." 

"  I  shall  bike  from  Durlingham.  If  you've  anything  to 
do  in  Reyburn  it  would  be  nice  if  you  met  me  at  The  King's 
Head  about  four.  We  could  have  tea  there  and  ride  out 
together.  —  R.  N." 

n 

"  I'm  excited.     I've  never  been  to  tea  in  an  hotel  before." 

She  was  chattering  like  a  fool,  saying  anything  that 
came  into  her  head,  to  break  up  the  silence  he  made. 

She  was  aware  of  something  underneath  it,  something 
that  was  growing  more  and  more  beautiful  every  minute. 
She  was  trying  to  smash  this  thing  lest  it  should  grow  more 
beautiful  than  she  could  bear. 

"  You  see  how  I  score  by  being  shut  up  in  Morfe.  When 
I  do  get  out  it's  no  end  of  an  adventure."  (Was  there  ever 
such  an  idiot?) 

Suddenly  she  left  off  trying  to  smash  the  silence. 

The  silence  made  everything  stand  out  with  a  super- 
natural clearness,  the  square,  white-clothed  table  in  the  bay 
of  the  window,  the  Queen  Anne  fluting  on  the  Britannia 
metal  teapot,  the  cups  and  saucers  and  plates,  white  with 
a  gentian  blue  band,  The  King's  Head  stamped  in  gold  like 
a  crest. 

Sitting  there  so  still  he  had  the  queer  effect  of  creating 
for  both  of  you  a  space  of  your  own,  more  real  than  the 
space  you  had  just  stepped  out  of.  There,  there  and  not 
anywhere  else,  these  supernaturally  clear  things  had  reality, 
a  unique  but  impermanent  reality.  It  would  last  as  long 
as  you  sat  there  and  would  go  when  you  went.  You  knew 
that  whatever  else  you  might  forget  you  would  remember 
this. 

The  rest  of  the  room,  the  other  tables  and  the  people 


344  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

sitting  at  them  were  not  quite  real.    They  stood  in  another 

space,  a  different  and  inferior  kind  of  space. 

"  I  came  first  of  all,"  he  said,  "  to  bring  you  that." 

He  took  out  of  his  pocket  and  put  down  between  them 

the  thin,  new  white  parchment  book  of  her  Poems. 

"  Oh  .  .  .  Poor  thing,  I  wonder  what'll  happen  to  it?  " 
Funny  —  it  was  the  least  real  thing.    If  it  existed  at  all 

it  existed  somewhere  else,  not  in  this  space,  not  in  this  time. 

If  you  took  it  up  and  looked  at  it  the  clearness,  the  unique, 

impermanent  reality  would  be  gone,  and  you  would  never 

get  it  again. 


They  had  finished  the  run  down  Reyburn  hill.  Their 
pace  was  slackening  on  the  level. 

He  said,  "  That's  a  jolly  bicycle  of  yours." 

"  Isn't  it?  I'm  sure  you'll  like  to  know  I  bought  it  with 
the  wonderful  cheque  you  gave  me.  I  should  never  have 
had  it  without  that." 

"  I'm  glad  you  got  something  out  of  that  awful  time." 

"  Awful?  It  was  one  of  the  nicest  times  I've  ever  had. 
.  .  .  Nearly  all  my  nice  times  have  been  in  that  house." 

"  I  know,"  he  said.  "  My  uncle  would  let  you  do  any- 
thing you  liked  if  you  were  young  enough.  He  ought  to 
have  had  children  of  his  own.  They'd  have  kept  him  out 
of  mischief." 

"  I  can't  think,"  she  said  to  the  surrounding  hills,  '*  why 
people  get  into  mischief,  or  why  they  go  and  kill  themselves. 
When  they  can  ride  bicycles  instead." 


in 

Mamma  was  sitting  upright  and  averted,  with  an  air  of 
self-conscious  effacement,  holding  the  thin  white  book  before 
her  like  a  fan. 

Every  now  and  then  you  could  see  her  face  swinging 
round  from  behind  the  cover  and  her  eyes  looking  at  Richard 
Nicholson,  above  the  rims  of  her  glasses.  Uneasy,  fright- 
ened eyes. 


MIDDLE-AGE  345 


IV 

The  big  pink  roses  of  the  chintzes  and  the  gold  bordered 
bowls  of  the  black  mirrors  looked  at  you  reraemberingly. 

There  was  a  sort  of  brutality  about  it.  To  come  here 
and  be  happy,  to  come  here  in  order  to  be  happy,  when  they 
were  gone;  when  you  had  hurt  them  both  so  horribly. 

"  I'm  sitting  in  her  chair,"  she  thought. 

Richard  Nicholson  sat,  in  a  purely  temporary  attitude, 
by  the  table  in  the  window.  Against  the  window-pane  she 
could  see  his  side  face  drawn  in  a  brilliant,  furred  line  of 
light.  His  moustache  twitched  under  the  shadow  of  his 
nose.  He  was  smiling  to  himself  as  he  wrote  the  letter  to 
Mamma. 

There  was  a  brutality  about  that,  too.  She  woridered  if 
he  had  seen  old  Baxter's  pinched  mouth  and  sliding  eyes 
when  he  took  the  letter.  He  was  watching  him  as  he  went 
out,  waiting  for  the  click  of  the  latch. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said.  "  They  expect  you.  They  think 
it's  work." 

He  settled  himself  (in  Mr.  Sutcliffe's  chair) . 

"  It's  the  best  way,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  see  you  and  I 
don't  want  to  frighten  your  mother.    She  is  afraid  of  me." 

"  No.  She's  afraid  of  the  whole  thing.  She  wishes  it 
hadn't  happened.  She's  afraid  of  what'U  happen  next.  I 
can't  make  her  see  that  nothing  need  happen  next." 

"  She's  cleverer  than  you  think.  She  sees  that  some- 
thing's got  to  happen  next.  I  couldn't  stand  another  evening 
like  the  last." 

"  You  couldn't,"  she  agreed.     "  You  couldn't  possibly." 

"  We  can't  exactly  go  on  like  —  like  this,  you  know." 

"  Don't  let's  think  about  it.  Here  we  are.  Now  this 
minute.  It's  an  hour  and  a  half  till  dinner  time.  Why,  even 
if  I  go  at  nine  we've  got  three  hours." 

"That's  not  enough.  .  .  .  You  talk  as  though  we  could 
think  or  not  think,  as  we  chose.  Even  if  we  left  off  thinking 
we  should  have  to  go  on  living.     Your  mother  knows  that." 

"  I  don't  think  she  knows  more  than  we  do." 

"  She  knows  enough  to  frighten  her.  She  knows  what 
/  want.  ...  I  want  to  marry  you,  Mary." 


346  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

(This  then  was  what  she  had  been  afraid  of.  But 
Mamma  wouldn't  have  thought  of  it.) 

"  I  didn't  think  you  wanted  to  do  that.  Why  should 
you?  " 

"  It's  the  usual  thing,  isn't  it?    When  you  care  enough." 

''Do  you  care  enough?  " 

"  More  than  enough.  Don't  you?  .  ,  .  It's  no  use  say- 
ing you  don't.    1  know  you  do." 

"  Can  you  tell?  "  % 

"  Yes." 

"Do  I  go  about  showing  it?  " 

"  No ;  there  hasn't  been  time.    You  only  began  yesterday." 

''When?    When?" 

"  In  the  hotel.  Wlien  you  stopped  talking  suddenly. 
And  when  I  gave  you  your  book.  You  looked  as  though  you 
wished  I  hadn't.  As  though  I'd  dragged  you  away  from 
somewhere  where  you  were  happy." 

"  Yes.  ...  If  it  only  began  yesterday  we  can  stop  it. 
Stop  it  before  it  gets  worse." 

"  I  can't.     I've  been  at  it  longer  than  that." 

"  How  long?  " 

"Oh  —  I  don't  know.  It  might  have  been  that  first  week. 
After  I'd  found  out  that  there  was  peace  when  you  came 
into  the  room;  and  no  peace  when  you  went  out.  When 
you're  there  peace  oozes  out  of  you  and  soaks  into  me  all 
the  time." 

"  Does  it  feel  like  that?  " 

"  Just  like  that." 

"  But  —  if  it  feels  like  that  now,  we  should  spoil  it  by 
marrying." 

"  Oh  no  we  shouldn't.  " 

"  Yes.  ...  If  it's  peace  you  want.  There  won't  be  any 
peace.  .  .  .  Besides,  you  don't  know.  Do  you  remember 
telling  me  about  your  uncle?  " 

"  What's  he  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  And  that  girl.  You  said  I  couldn't  have  known  any- 
thing about  it.  .  .  .  You  said  I  couldn't  even  have  come 
in  for  the  sad  end  of  it." 

"Well?" 

"  Well.  ...  I  did.  ...  I  was  the  sad  end  of  it.  .  .  . 
The  girl  was  me." 


MIDDLE-AGE  347 

"  But  you  told  me  it  wasn't  true." 

...  He  had  got  up.     He  wanted  to  stand.     To  stand 
up  high  above  you. 
"  You  know,"  he  said,    "  you  told  me  it  wasn't  true." 


They  would  have  to  go  through  with  it.  Dining.  Drink- 
ing coffee.  Talking  politely;  talking  intelligently;  talking. 
Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam,  Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam.  "The 
symbolistes  are  finighed.  ...  Do  you  know  Jean  Richepin? 
'  II  etait  une  fois  un  pauvre  gars  Qui  aimait  cello  qui  ne 
I'aimait  pas  '?...'  Le  cceur  de  ta  mere  pour  mon  chien.'  " 
He  thinks  I  lied.  "  You  ought  to  read  Henri  de  Regnier 
and  Remy  de  Gourmont.  You'd  like  them."  .  .  .  Le  cceur 
de  ta  mere.  He  thinks  I  lied.  Goodness  knows  what  he 
doesn't  think. 

The  end  of  it  would  come  at  nine  o'clock. 


"  Are  you  still  angry?  " 

He  laughed.  A  dreadful  sniffling  laugh  that  came  through 
his  nostrils. 

"  /'m  not.  If  I  were  I  should  let  you  go  on  thinking  I 
lied.  You  see,  I  didn't  know  it  was  true.  I  didn't  know 
I  was  the  girl." 

"  You  didn't  knowf  " 

"  How  could  I  when  he  never  said  a  word?  " 

"  I  can't  understand  your  not  seeing  it." 

"  Would  you  like  me  better  if  I  had  seen  it?  " 

"  N-no.  .  .  .  But  I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me.  Why  did 
you?  " 

"  I  was  only  trying  to  break  the  shock.  You  thought  I 
couldn't  be  old  enough  to  be  that  girl.  I  meant  you  to  do 
a  sum  in  your  head:  '  If  she  was  that  girl  and  she  was 
seventeen,  then  she  must  be  thirty-nine  now.'  " 

"  Is  that  what  you  smashed  up  our  evening  for?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  shouldn't  care  if  you  were  fifty-nine.  I'm  forty- 
five." 

"  You're  sorry.    You're  sorry  all  the  same." 


348  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

"  I'm  sorry  because  there's  so  little  time,  Mary,  Sorry 
I'm  six  years  older  than  you.  .  .  ." 

Nine  o'clock. 

She  stood  up.  He  turned  to  her.  He  made  a  queer 
sound.    A  sound  like  a  deep,  tearing  sigh. 


"  If  I  were  twenty  I  couldn't  marry  you,  because  of 
Mamma.    That's  one  thing.    You  can't  marry  Mamma." 

"  We  can  talk  about  your  mother  afterwards." 

"  No.  Now.  There  isn't  any  afterwards.  There's  only 
this  minute  that  we're  in.  And  perhaps  the  next.  .  .  . 
You  haven't  thought  what  it'll  be  like.  You  can't  leave 
London  because  of  your  work.  I  can't  leave  this  place 
because  of  Mamma.  She'd  be  miserable  in  London.  I  can't 
leave  her.  She  hasn't  anybody  but  me.  I  promised  my 
brother  I'd  look  after  her.  .  .  . 

"  She'd  have  to  live  with  me." 

"  Why  not?  " 

"  You  couldn't  live  with  her," 

"  I  could,  Mary." 

"  Not  you.  You  said  you  couldn't  stand  another  evening 
like  yesterday.  .  ,  ,  All  the  evenings  would  be  like  yester- 
day. ,  .  .  Please.  .  .  .  Even  if  there  wasn't  Mamma, 
you  don't  want  to  marry.  If  you'd  wanted  to  you'd  have 
done  it  long  ago,  instead  of  waiting  till  you're  forty-five. 
Think  of  two  people  tied  up  together  for  life  whether  they 
both  like  it  or  not.  It  isn't  even  as  if  one  of  them  could 
be  happy.  How  could  you  if  the  other  wasn't?  Look  at 
the  Sutcliffes.  Think  how  he  hated  it.  ,  .  .  And  he  was 
a  kind,  patient  man.  You  know  you  wouldn't  dream  of 
marrying  me  if  you  didn't  think  it  was  the  only  possible 
way." 

"Well  — isn't  it?" 

"  No.  The  one  impossible  way.  I'd  do  anything  for  you 
but  that.  .  .  .  Anything." 

"  Would  you,  Mary?    Would  you  have  the  courage?  " 

"  It  would  take  infinitely  more  courage  to  marry  you. 
We  should  be  risking  more.  All  the  beautiful  things.  If 
it  wasn't  for  Mamma.  .  ,  .  But  there  is  Mamma.  So  —  you 
see." 


MIDDLE-AGE  349 

She  thought:    "  He  hasn't  kissed  me.    He  hasn't  held  me 
in  his  arms.    He'll  be  all  right.    It  won't  hurt  him." 


That  was  Catty's  white  apron. 

Catty  stood  on  the  cobbled  square  by  the  front  door, 
looking  for  her.  When  she  saw  them  coming  she  ran  back 
into  the  house. 

She  was  waiting  in  the  passage  as  Mary  came  in. 

"  The  mistress  is  upset  about  something,"  she  said. 
"  After  she  got  Mr.  Nicholson's  letter." 

"  There  wasn't  anything  to  upset  her  in  that,  Catty." 

"  P'raps  not,  Miss  Mary ;  but  I  thought  I'd  tell  you." 

Mamma  had  been  crying  all  evening.  Her  pocket-hand- 
kerchief lay  in  her  lap,  a  wet  rag. 

"  I  thought  you  were  never  coming  back  again,"  she  said. 

"  Why,  where  did  you  think  I'd  gone?  " 

"  Goodness  knows  where.  I  believe  there's  nothing  you 
wouldn't  do.  I've  no  security  with  you,  Mary.  .  .  .  Stay- 
ing out  till  all  hours  of  the  night.  .  .  .  Sitting  up  with  that 
man.  .  .  .  You'll  be  the  talk  of  the  place  if  you  don't  take 
care.  " 

(She  thought:  ''I  must  let  her  go  on.  I  won't  say  any- 
thing.   If  I  do  it'll  be  terrible.") 

"  I  can't  think  what  possessed  you.  ..." 

("  Why  did  I  do  it?  Why  did  I  smash  it  all  up?  Uncle 
Victor  suicided.  That's  what  I've  done.  .  .  .  I've  killed 
myself.  .  .  .  This  isn't  me.") 

"  If  that's  what  comes  of  your  publishing  I'd  rather  your 
books  were  sunk  to  the  bottom  of  the  sea.  I'd  rather  see 
you  in  your  coffin." 

"  I  am  in  my  coffin." 

"  I  wish  I  were  in  mine,"  her  mother  said. 


Mamma  was  getting  up  from  her  chair,  raising  herself 
slowly  by  her  arms. 

Mary  stooped  to  pick  up  the  pocket-handkerchief. 
"  Don't,  Mamma;  I've  got  it." 


350  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mamma  went  on  stooping.  Sinking,  sliding  down  side- 
ways, clutching  at  the  edge  of  the  table. 

Mary  saw  terror,  bright,  animal  terror,  darting  up  to  her 
out  of  Mamma's  eyes,  and  in  a  place  by  themselves  the  cloth 
sliding,  the  lamp  rocking  and  righting  itself. 

She  was  dragging  her  up  by  her  armpits,  holding  her  up. 
Mamma's  arms  were  dangling  like  dolls'  arms. 

And  like  a  machine  wound  up,  like  a  child  in  a  passion, 
she  still  struggled  to  walk,  her  knees  thrust  out,  doubled  up, 
giving  way,  her  feet  trailing. 

VI 

Not  a  stroke.  Well,  only  a  slight  stroke,  a  threatening, 
a  warning.    "  Remember  she's  getting  old,  Mary." 

Any  little  worry  or  excitement  would  do  it. 

She  was  worried  and  excited  about  me.  Richard  worried 
and  excited  her. 

If  I  could  only  stay  awake  till  she  sleeps.  She's  lying 
there  like  a  lamb,  calling  me  *'  dear  "  and  afraid  of  giving 
me  trouble.  .  .  .  Her  little  hands  dragged  the  bedclothes 
up  to  her  chin  when  Dr.  Charles  came.  She  looked  at  him 
with  her  bright,  terrified  eyes. 

She  isn't  old.    She  can't  be  when  her  eyes  are  so  bright. 

She  thinks  it's  a  stroke.  She  won't  believe  him.  She 
thinks  she'll  die  like  Mrs.  Heron. 

Perhaps  she  knows. 

Perhaps  Dr.  Charles  really  thinks  she'll  die  and  won't 
tell  me.  Richard  thought  it.  He  was  sorry  and  gentle, 
because  he  knew.  You  could  see  by  his  cleared,  smoothed 
face  and  that  dreadfully  kind,  dreadfully  wise  look.  He 
gave  in  to  everything  —  with  an  air  of  insincere,  provisional 
acquiescence,  as  if  he  knew  it  couldn't  be  for  very  long. 
Dr.  Charles  must  have  told  him. 

Richard  wants  it  to  happen.  .  .  .  Richard's  wanting  it 
can't  make  it  happen. 

It  might,  though.  Richard  might  get  at  her.  His  mind 
and  will  might  be  getting  at  her  all  the  time,  making  her 
die.  He  might  do  it  without  knowing  he  was  doing  it, 
because  he  couldn't  help  it.    He  might  do  it  in  his  sleep. 


middLlE-age  351 

But  I  can  stop  that.  ...  If  Richard's  mind  and  will  can 
make  her  die,  my  mind  and  will  can  keep  her  from  dying. 
.  .  ,  There  was  something  I  did  before. 

That  time  I  wanted  to  go  away  with  the  Sutcliffes.  When 
Roddy  was  coming  home.  Something  happened  then.  .  .  , 
If  it  happened  then  it  can  happen  now. 

If  I  could  remember  how  you  do  it.  Flat  on  your  back 
with  your  eyes  shut;  not  tight  shut.  You  mustn't  feel  your 
eyelids.  You  mustn't  feci  any  part  of  you  at  all.  You 
think  of  nothing,  absolutely  nothing;  not  even  think.  You 
keep  on  not  feeling,  not  thinking,  not  seeing  things  till  the 
blackness  comes  in  waves,  blacker  and  blacker.  That's 
how  it  was  before.  Then  the  blackness  was  perfectly  still. 
You  couldn't  feel  your  breathing  or  your  heart  beating.  .  .  . 
It's  coming  all  right.  .  .  .  Blacker  and  blacker. 

It  wasn't  like  this  before. 

This  is  an  awful  feeling.  Dying  must  be  like  this.  One 
thing  going  after  another.  Something  holding  down  your 
heart,  stopping  its  beat;  something  holding  down  your 
chest,  crushing  the  breath  out  of  it.  .  .  .  Don't  think  about 
the  feeling.    Don't  feel.    Think  of  the  blackness.  .  .  . 

It  isn't  the  same  blackness.  There  are  specks  and  shreds 
of  light  in  it ;  you  can't  get  the  light  away.  .  .  .  Don't  think 
about  the  blackness  and  the  light.  Let  everything  go  except 
yourself.  Hold  on  to  yourself.  .  .  .  But  you  felt  your  self 
going. 

Going  and  coming  back;  gathered  together;  incredibly 
free;  disentangled  from  the  net  of  nerves  and  veins.  It 
didn't  move  any  more  with  the  movement  of  the  net.  It 
was  clear  and  still  in  the  blackness;  intensely  real. 

Then  it  willed.  Your  self  willed.  It  was  free  to  will. 
You  knew  that  it  had  never  been  free  before  except  once;  it 
had  never  willed  before  except  once.  Willing  was  this. 
Waves  and  waves  of  will,  coming  on  and  on,  making  your 
will,  driving  it  through  empty  time.  ..."  The  time  of 
time  ":  that  was  the  Self.  .  .  .  Time  where  nothing  happens 
except  this.  Where  nothing  happens  except  God's  will. 
God's  will  in  your  will.  Self  of  your  self.  Reality  of 
reality.  ...     It  had  felt  like  that. 

Mamma  had  waked  up.    She  was  saying  she  was  better. 


352  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Mamma  was  better.  She  said  she  felt  perfectly  well. 
She  could  walk  across  the  room.  She  could  walk  without 
your  holding  her. 

It  couldn't  have  been  that.  It  couldn't,  possibly.  It 
was  a  tiny  hemorrhage  and  it  had  dried  up.  It  would  have 
dried  up  just  the  same  if  you  hadn't  done  anything.  Those 
things  don't  happen. 

What  did  happen  was  extraordinary  enough.  The  queer 
dying.  The  freedom  afterwards.  The  intense  stillness,  the 
intense  energy;  the  certainty. 

Something  was  there. 


That  horrible  dream.  Dorsy  oughtn't  to  have  made  me 
go  and  see  the  old  woman  in  the  workhouse.  A  body 
without  a  mind.  That's  what  made  the  dream  come.  It 
was  Mamma's  face;  but  she  was  doing  what  the  old  woman 
did. 

"Mamma!"  —  That's  the  second  time  I've  dreamed 
Mamma  was  dead. 

The  little  lamb,  lying  on  her  back  with  her  mouth  open, 
making  that  funny  noise:  "  Cluck-cluck,"  like  a  hen. 

Why  can't  I  dream  about  something  I  want  to  happen? 
Why  can't  I  dream  about  Richard?  .  .  .  Poor  Richard,  how 
can  he  go  on  believing  I  shall  come  to  him? 


VII 

Dear  Dr.  Charles,  with  his  head  sticking  out  between 
the  tubes  of  the  stethoscope,  like  a  ram.  His  poor  old 
mouth  hung  loose  as  he  breathed.  He  was  out  late  last 
night;  there  was  white  stubble  on  his  chin. 

"  It  won't  do  it  when  you  want  it  to." 

"  It's  doing  quite  enough.  .  .  .  Let  me  see,  it's  two  years 
since  your  mother  had  that  illness.  You  must  go  away, 
Mary.  For  a  month  at  least.  Dorsy'll  come  and  take  care 
of  your  mother." 

"  Does  it  matter  where  I  go?  " 

"  N-no.    Not  so  much.    Go  where  you'll  get  a  thorough 


MIDDLE-AGE  353 

change,  my  dear.  I  wouldn't  stay  with  relations,  if  I  were 
you." 

"  All  right,  I'll  go  if  you'll  tell  me  what's  the  matter 
with  me." 

"  You've  got  your  brother  Rodney's  heart.  But  it  won't 
kill  you  if  you'll  take  care  of  yourself." 

(Roddy's  heart,  the  net  of  flesh  and  blood  drawing  in  a 
bit  of  your  body.) 

XXXIII 


Richard  had  gone  up  into  his  own  flat  and  left  her  to  wash 
and  dress  and  explore.  He  had  told  her  she  was  to  have 
Tiedeman's  flat.  Not  knowing  who  Tiedeman  was  made 
it  more  wonderful  that  God  should  have  put  it  into  his  head 
to  go  away  for  Easter  and  lend  you  his  flat. 

If  you  wanted  anything  you  could  ring  and  they  would 
come  up  from  the  basement  and  look  after  you. 

She  didn't  want  them  to  come  up  yet.  She  wanted  to 
lie  back  among  her  cushions  where  Richard  had  packed 
her,  and  turn  over  the  moments  and  remember  what  they 
had  been  like:  getting  out  of  the  train  at  King's  Cross  and 
finding  Richard  there;  coming  with  him  out  of  the  thin  white 
April  light  into  the  rich  darkness  and  brilliant  colours  of 
the  room;  the  feeling  of  Richard's  hands  as  they  undid  her 
fur  stole  and  peeled  the  sleeves  of  her  coat  from  her  arms; 
seeing  him  kneel  on  the  hearthrug  and  make  tea  with  an 
air  of  doing  something  intensely  interesting,  an  air  of 
security  and  possession.  He  went  about  in  Tiedeman's 
rooms  as  if  they  belonged  to  him. 

She  liked  Tiedeman's  flat:  the  big  outer  room,  curtained 
with  thick  gentian  blue  and  thin  violet.  There  was  a  bowl 
of  crimson  and  purple  anemones  on  the  dark  oval  of  the 
oak  table. 

Tiedeman's  books  covered  the  walls  with  their  coloured 
bands  and  stripes  and  the  illuminated  gold  of  their  tooling. 
The  deep  bookcases  made  a  ledge  all  round  half-way  up  the 
wall,  and  the  shallow  bookcases  went  on  above  it  to  the 
ceiling. 

2a 


354  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

But  —  those  white  books  on  the  table  were  Richard's 
books.  Mary  Olivier  —  Mary  Olivier.  My  books  that  I 
gave  him.  .  .  .  They're  Richard's  rooms. 

She  got  up  and  looked  about.  That  long  dark  thing  was 
her  coat  and  fur  stretched  out  on  the  flat  couch  in  the  corner 
where  Richard  had  laid  them;  stretched  out  in  an  absolute 
peace  and  rest. 

She  picked  them  up  and  went  into  the  inner  room  that 
showed  through  the  wide  square  opening.  The  small  brown 
oak-panelled  room.  No  furniture  but  Richard's  writing 
table  and  his  chair.  A  tall  narrow  French  window  looking 
to  the  backs  of  houses,  and  opening  on  a  leaded  balcony. 
Spindle-wood  trees,  green  balls  held  up  on  ramrod  stems  in 
green  tubs.    Richard's  garden. 

Curtains  of  thin  silk,  brilliant  magenta,  letting  the  light 
through.  The  hanging  green  bough  of  a  plane  tree,  high 
up  on  the  pane,  between.  A  worn  magentaish  rug  on  the 
dark  floor. 

She  went  through  the  door  on  the  right  and  found  a 
short,  narrow  passage.  Another  French  window  opening 
from  it  on  to  the  balcony.  A  bathroom  on  the  other  side; 
a  small  white  panelled  bedroom  at  the  end. 

She  had  no  new  gown.  Nothing  but  the  black  chiffon 
one  (black  because  of  Uncle  Victor)  she  had  bought  two 
years  ago  with  Richard's  cheque.  She  had  worn  it  at 
Greffington  that  evening  when  she  dined  with  him.  It  had 
a  long,  pointed  train.  Its  thin,  open,  wide  spreading  sleeves 
fell  from  her  shoulders  in  long  pointed  wings.  It  made  her 
feel  slender. 


There  was  no  light  in  the  inner  room.  Clear  glassy  dark 
twilight  behind  the  tall  window.  She  stood  there  waiting 
for  Richard  to  come  down. 

Richard  loved  all  this.  He  loved  beautiful  books,  beauti- 
ful things,  beautiful  anemone  colours,  red  and  purple  with 
the  light  coming  through  them,  thin  silk  curtains  that  let 
the  light  through  like  the  thin  silky  tissues  of  flowers.  He 
loved  the  sooty  brown  London  walls,  houses  standing  back 
to  back,  the  dark  flanks  of  the  back  wings  jutting  out, 


MIDDLE-AGE  355 

almost  meeting  across  the  trenches  of  the  gardens,  making 
the  colours  in  his  rooms  brilliant  as  stained  glass. 

He  loved  the  sound  of  the  street  outside,  intensifying 
the  quiet  of  the  house. 

It  was  the  backs  that  were  so  beautiful  at  night;  the 
long  straight  ranges  of  the  dark  walls,  the  sudden  high 
dark  cliffs  and  peaks  of  the  walls,  hollowed  out  into  long 
galleries  filled  with  thick,  burning  light,  rows  on  rows  of 
oblong  casements  opening  into  the  light.  Here  and  there 
a  tree  stood  up  black  in  the  trenches  of  the  gardens. 

The  tight  strain  in  her  mind  loosened  and  melted  in  the 
stream  of  the  pure  new  light,  the  pure  new  darkness,  the 
pure  new  colours. 

Richard  came  in.  They  stood  together  a  long  time, 
looking  out;  they  didn't  say  a  word. 

Then,  as  they  turned  back  to  the  lighted  outer  room,  "  I 
thought  I  was  to  have  had  Tiedeman's  flat?  " 

"  Well,  he's  up  another  flight  of  stairs  and  the  rain  makes 
a  row  on  the  skylight.  It  was  simpler  to  take  his  and  give 
you  mine.    I  want  you  to  have  mine." 

n 

She  turned  off  the  electric  light  and  shut  her  eyes  and 
lay  thinking.  The  violent  motion  of  the  express  prolonged 
itself  in  a  ghostly  vibration,  rocking  the  bed.  In  still  space, 
unshaken  by  this  tremor,  she  could  see  the  other  rooms, 
the  quiet,  beautiful  rooms. 

I  wonder  how  Mamma  and  Dorsy  are  getting  on.  .  .  . 
I'm  not  going  to  think  about  Mamma.  It  isn't  fair  to 
Richard.  I  shan't  think  about  anybody  but  Richard  for  this 
fortnight.  One  evening  of  it's  gone  already.  It  might  have 
lasted  quite  another  hour  if  he  hadn't  got  up  and  gone 
away  so  suddenly.  What  a  fool  I  was  to  let  him  think  I 
was  tired. 

There  will  be  thirteen  evenings  more.  Thirteen.  You 
can  stretch  time  out  by  doing  a  lot  of  things  in  it;  doing 
something  different  every  hour.  When  you're  with  Richard 
every  minute's  different  from  the  last,  and  he  brings  you  the 
next  all  bright  and  new. 


356  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Heaven  would  be  like  that.  Imagine  an  eternity  of 
heaven;  being  with  Richard  for  ever  and  ever.  But  nobody 
ever  did  imagine  an  eternity  of  heaven.  People  only  talk 
about  it  because  they  can't  imagine  it.  What  they  mean  is 
that  if  they  had  one  minute  of  it  they  would  remember  that 
for  ever  and  ever. 


This  is  Richard's  life.  This  is  what  I'd  have  taken  from 
him  if  I'd  let  him  marry  me. 

I  daren't  even  think  what  it  would  have  been  like  if 
I'd  tried  to  mix  up  Mamma  and  Richard  in  the  same  house. 
.  .  .  And  poor  little  Mamma  in  a  strange  place  with  nothing 
about  it  that  she  could  remember,  going  up  and  down  in 
it,  trying  to  get  at  me,  and  looking  reproachful  and  dis- 
approving all  the  time.  She'd  have  to  be  shut  in  her  own 
rooms  because  Richard  wouldn't  have  her  in  his._  Sitting 
up  waiting  to  be  read  aloud  to  and  played  halma  with  when 
Richard  wanted  me.  Saying  the  same  things  over  and  over 
again.     Sighing. 

Richard  would  go  off  his  head  if  he  heard  Mamma  sigh. 

He  wants  to  be  by  himself  the  whole  time,  "  working  like 
blazes."  He  likes  to  feel  that  the  very  servants  are  bat- 
tened down  in  the  basement  so  that  he  doesn't  know  they're 
there.  He  couldn't  stand  Tiedeman  and  Peters  if  they 
weren't  doing  the  same  thing.  Tiedeman  working  like 
blazes  in  the  flat  above  him  and  Peters  working  like  blazes 
in  the  flat  below. 

Richard  slept  in  this  room  last  night.  He  will  sleep  in  it 
again  when  I'm  gone. 

She  switched  the  light  on  to  look  at  it  for  another 
second:  the  privet- white  panelled  cabin,  the  small  wine- 
coloured  chest  of  drawers,  the  small  golden-brown  ward- 
robe, shining. 

My  hat's  in  that  wardrobe,  lying  on  Richard's  waistcoat, 
fast  asleep. 

If  Tiedeman's  flat's  up  there,  that's  Richard  walking  up 
and  down  over  my  head.  ...  If  it  rains  there'll  be  a  row 
on  the  skylight  and  he  won't  sleep.    He  isn't  sleeping  now. 


MIDDLE-AGE  357 


III 

It  would  be  much  nicer  to  walk  home  through  Kensington 
Gardens  and  Hyde  Park. 

She  was  glad  that  they  were  going  to  have  a  quiet  even- 
ing. After  three  evenings  at  the  play  and  Richard  ruining 
himself  in  hansoms  and  not  sleeping.  .  . .  After  this  unbeliev- 
able afternoon.  All  those  people,  those  terribly  important 
people. 

It  was  amusing  to  go  about  with  Richard  and  feel  im- 
portant yourself  because  you  were  with  him.  And  to  see 
Richard's  ways  with  them,  his  nice  way  of  behaving  as  if 
he  wasn't  important  in  the  least,  as  if  it  was  you  they  had 
made  all  that  fuss  about. 

To  think  that  the  little  dried  up  schoolmasterish  man  was 
Professor  Lee  Ramsdcn,  prowling  about  outside  the  group, 
eager  and  shy,  waiting  to  be  introduced  to  you,  nobody 
taking  the  smallest  notice  of  him.  The  woman  who  had 
brought  him  making  soft,  sentimental  eyes  at  you  through 
the  gaps  in  the  group,  and  trying  to  push  him  in  a  bit 
nearer.  Then  Richard  asking  you  to  be  kind  for  one  minute 
to  the  poor  old  thing.  It  hurt  you  to  see  him  shy  and 
humble  and  out  of  it. 

And  when  you  thought  of  his  arrogance  at  Durlingham. 

It  was  the  women's  voices  that  tired  you  so,  and  their 
nervous,  snapping  eyes. 

The  best  of  all  was  going  away  from  them  quietly  with 
Richard  into  Kensington  Gardens. 

"  Did  you  like  it,  Mary?  " 

"  Frightfully.     But  not  half  so  much  as  this." 


IV 

She  was  all  alone  in  the  front  room,  stretched  out  on 
the  flat  couch  in  the  corner  facing  the  door. 

He  was  still  writing  his  letter  in  the  inner  room.  When 
she  heard  him  move  she  would  slide  her  feet  to  the  floor 
and  sit  up. 

She  wanted  to  lie  still  with  her  hands  over  her  shut  eyes, 


358  MARY    OLIVIER:     A   LIFE 

making  the  four  long,  delicious  days  begin  again  and  go 
on  in  her  head. 

Richard  would  take  hansoms.  You  couldn't  stop  him. 
Perhaps  he  was  afraid  if  you  walked  too  far  you  would 
drop  down  dead.  When  it  was  all  over  your  soul  would 
still  drive  about  London  in  a  hansom  for  ever  and  ever, 
through  blue  and  gold  rain-sprinkled  days,  through  poignant 
white  evenings,  through  the  streaming,  steep,  brown-purple 
darkness  and  the  streaming  flat,  thin  gold  of  the  wet  nights. 

They  were  not  going  to  have  any  more  tiring  parties. 
There  wasn't  enough  time. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  he  was  sitting  on  the  chair 
by  the  foot  of  the  couch,  leaning  forward,  looking  at  her. 
She  saw  nothing  but  his  loose,  hanging  hands  and  straining 
eyes. 

"Oh,  Richard  —  what  time  is  it?"  She  swung  her  feet 
to  the  floor  and  sat  up  suddenly. 

''  Only  nine." 

"  Only  nine.     The  evening's  nearly  gone." 


"  Is  that  why  you  aren't  sleeping,  Richard?  ...  I  didn't 
know.     I  didn't  know  I  was  hurting  you." 

"  What-did-you-think?  AVhat-did-you-think?  Isn't  it 
hurting  youf  " 

"  Me?  I've  got  used  to  it.  I  was  so  happy  just  being 
with  you." 

"  So  happy  and  so  quiet  that  I  thought  you  didn't  care. 
,  .  .  Well,  what  was  I  to  think?    If  you  won't  marry  me." 

"  That's  because  I  care  so  frightfully.  Don't  let's  rake 
that  up  again." 

"  Well,  there  it  is." 

She  thought:  "  I've  no  business  to  come  here  to  his  rooms, 
turning  him  out,  making  him  so  wretched  that  he  can't 
sleep.     No  business.  .  .  .  Unless  —  " 

"  And  we've  got  to  go  on  living  with  it,"  he  said. 

He  thinks  I  haven't  the  courage.  ...  I  can't  tell  him. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  there  it  is." 

Why  shouldn't  I  tell  him?  .  .  .  We've  only  ten  days. 
As  long  as  I'm  here  nothing  matters  but  Richard.  ...  If 


MIDDLE-AGE  359 

I  keep  perfectly  still,  still  like  this,  if  I  don't  say  a  word 
he'll  think  of  it.  .  .  . 

"  Richard  —  would  you  rather  I  hadn't  come?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  remember  the  evening  I  came  —  you  got  up  so 
suddenly  and  left  me?     What  did  you  do  that  for?  " 

"  Because  if  I'd  stayed  another  minute  I  couldn't  have 
left  you  at  all." 

He  stood  up. 

"  And  you're  only  going  now  because  you  can't  see  that 
I'm  not  a  coward." 


This  wouldn't  last,  the  leaping  and  knocking  of  her 
heart,  the  eyelids  screwing  themselves  tight,  the  jerking  of 
her  nerves  at  every  sound:  at  the  two  harsh  rattling  screams 
of  the  curtain  rings  along  the  pole,  at  the  light  click  of  the 
switches.  Only  the  small  green-shaded  lamp  still  burning 
on  Richard's  writing  table  in  the  inner  room.  She  could 
hear  him  moving  about,  softly  and  secretly,  in  there. 

He  was  Richard.  That  was  Richard,  moving  about  in 
there. 


Richard  thought  his  flat  was  a  safe  place.  But  it  wasn't. 
People  creeping  up  the  stairs  every  minute  and  standing  still 
to  listen.  People  would  come  and  try  the  handle  of  the 
door. 

"  They  won't,  dear.  Nobody  ever  comes  in.  It  has 
never  happened.     It  isn't  going  to  happen  now." 

Yet  you  couldn't  help  thinking  that  just  this  night  it 
would  happen. 

She  thought  that  Peters  knew.  He  wouldn't  come  out 
of  his  door  till  you  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  stairs. 

She  thought  the  woman  in  the  basement  knew.  She 
remembered  the  evening  at  Greffington:  Baxter's  pinched 
mouth  and  his  eyes  sliding  sideways  to  look  at  you.  She 
knew  now  what  Baxter  had  been  thinking.  The  woman's 
look  was  the  female  of  Baxter's. 

As  if  that  could  hurt  you ! 


360  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


VI 

"  Mary,  do  you  know  you're  growing  younger  every 
minute?  " 

"  I  shall  go  on  growing  younger  and  younger  till  it's  all 
over." 

''  Till  what's  all  over?  " 

"  This.    So  will  you,  Richard." 

"  Not  in  the  same  way.  My  hair  isn't  young  any  more. 
My  face  isn't  young  any  more." 

"  I  don't  want  it  to  be  young.  It  wasn't  half  so  nice  a 
face  when  it  was  young.  .  .  .  Some  other  woman  loved  it 
when  it  was  young." 

"  Yes.    Another  woman  loved  it  when  it  was  young." 

"  Is  she  alive  and  going  about?  " 

"  Oh,  yes;  she's  alive  and  she  goes  about  a  lot." 

"  Does  she  love  you  now?  " 

"  I  suppose  she  does." 

"  I  wish  she  didn't." 

"  You  needn't  mind  her,  Mary.  She  was  never  anything 
to  me.    She  never  will  be." 

"  But  I  do  mind  her.  I  mind  her  awfully.  I  can't  bear 
to  think  of  her  going  about  and  loving  you.  She's  no 
business  to.  .  .  .  Why  do  I  mind  her  loving  you  more  than 
I'd  mind  your  loving  her?  " 

"  Because  you  like  loving  more  than  being  loved." 

"  How  do  you  know?  " 

"  I  know  every  time  I  hold  you  in  my  arms." 

There  have  been  other  women  then,  or  he  wouldn't  know 
the  difference.  There  must  have  been  a  woman  that  he 
loved. 

I  don't  care.    It  wasn't  the  same  thing. 

"  What  are  you  thinking?  " 

"  I'm  thinking  nothing  was  ever  the  same  thing  as  this." 

"  No.  .  .  .  Whatever  we  do,  Mary,  we  mustn't  go  back 
on  it.  .  .  .  If  we  could  have  done  anything  else.  But  I 
can't  see.  .  .  .  It's  not  as  if  it  could  last  long.  Nothing 
lasts  long.     Life  doesn't  last  long." 

He  sounded  as  if  he  were  sorry,  as  if  already,  in  his 
mind,  he  had  gone  back  on  it.    After  three  days. 


MIDDLE-AGE  361 

"  You're  not  sorry,  Richard?  " 

"  Only  when  I  think  of  you.  The  awful  risks  I've  made 
you  take." 

"  Can't  you  see  I  like  risks?  I  always  have  liked  risks. 
When  we  were  children  my  brothers  and  I  were  always 
trying  to  see  just  how  near  we  could  go  to  breaking  our 
necks." 

"  I  know  you've  courage  enough  for  anything.  But  that 
was  rather  a  different  sort  of  risk." 

"  No.  No.  There  are  no  different  sorts  of  risk.  All 
intense  moments  of  danger  are  the  same.  It's  always  the 
same  feeling.  I  don't  know  whether  I've  courage  or  not, 
but  I  do  know  that  when  danger  comes  you  don't  care. 
You're  hoisted  up  above  caring." 

"  You  do  care,  Mary." 

"  About  my  '  reputation  '?  You  wouldn't  like  to  think  I 
didn't  care  about  it.  .  .  .  Of  course,  I  care  frightfully.  If 
I  didn't,  whcre's  the  risk?  " 

"  I  hate  your  having  to  take  it  all.  I  don't  risk  any- 
thing." 

"  I  wish  you  did.  Then  you'd  be  happier.  Poor  Richard 
—  so  safe  in  his  man's  world.  .  .  .  You  can  be  sorry  about 
that,  if  you  like.  But  not  about  me.  I  shall  never  be 
sorry.  Nothing  in  this  world  can  make  me  sorry. 
...  I  shouldn't  like  Mamma  to  know  about  it.  But  even 
Mamma  couldn't  make  me  sorry.  .  .  .  I've  always  been 
happy  about  the  things  that  matter,  the  real  things.  I  hate 
people  who  sneak  and  snivel  about  real  things.  .  .  .  People 
who  have  doubts  about  God  and  don't  like  them  and  snivel. 
I  had  doubts  about  God  once,  and  they  made  me  so  happy 
I  could  hardly  bear  it.  .  .  .  Mamma  couldn't  bear  it  making 
me  happy.  She  wouldn't  have  minded  half  so  much  if  I 
had  been  sorry  and  snivelled.  She  wouldn't  mind  so  much 
if  I  was  sorry  and  snivelled  about  this." 

"  You  said  you  weren't  going  to  think  about  your 
mother." 

''  I'm  not  thinking  about  her.  I'm  thinking  about  how 
happy  I  have  been  and  am  and  shall  be." 

Even  thinking  about  Mamma  couldn't  hurt  you  now. 
Nothing  could  hurt  the  happiness  you  shared  with  Richard. 
What  it  was  now  it  would  always  be.     Pure  and  remorseless. 


362  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


vn 

Delicious,  warm,  shining  day.  She  had  her  coat  and 
hat  on  ready  to  go  down  with  him.  The  hansom  stood 
waiting  in  the  street. 

They  were  looking  up  the  place  on  the  map,  when  the 
loud  double  knock  came. 

"  That's  for  Peters.     He's  always  getting  wires  —  " 

"  If  we  don't  go  to-day  we  shall  never  go.  We've  only 
got  five  more  now." 

The  long,  soft  rapping  on  the  door  of  the  room.  Knuckles 
rapping  out  their  warning.  "  You  can't  say  I  don't  give 
you  time." 

Richard  took  the  orange  envelope. 

''  It's  for  you,  Mary." 

"  Oh,  Richard,  '  Come  at  once.    Mother  ill.  —  DORSY.' " 

She  would  catch  the  ten  train.  That  was  what  the 
hansom  was  there  for. 

"  I'll  send  your  things  on  after  you." 

The  driver  and  the  slog-slogging  horse  knew  that  she 
would  catch  the  train.     Richard  knew. 

He  had  the  same  look  on  his  face  that  was  there  before 
when  Mamma  was  ill.  Sorrow  that  wasn't  sorrow.  And 
the  same  clear  thought  behind  it. 

XXXIV 


Dorsy's  nerves  were  in  a  shocking  state.  You  could  see 
she  had  been  afraid  all  the  time;  from  the  first  day  when 
Mamma  had  kept  on  saying,  "  Has  Mary  come  back?  " 

Dorsy  was  sure  that  was  how  it  began;  but  she  couldn't 
tell  you  whether  it  was  before  or  afterwards  that  she  had 
forgotten  the  days  of  the  week. 

Anybody  could  forget  the  days  of  the  week.  What 
frightened  Dorsy  was  hearing  her  say  suddenly,  "  Mary's 
gone."  She  said  it  to  herself  when  she  didn't  know  Dorsy 
was  in  the  room.  Then  she  had  left  off  asking  and  wonder- 
ing.   For  five  days  she  hadn't  said  anything  about  you. 


MIDDLE-AGE  363 

Not  anything  at  all.     When  she  heard  your  name  she  stared 
at  them  with  a  queer,  scared  look. 

Catty  said  that  yesterday  she  had  begun  to  be  afraid  of 
Dorsy  and  couldn't  bear  her  in  the  room.  That  was  what 
made  them  send  the  wire. 


What  had  she  been  thinking  of  those  five  days?  It  was 
as  though  she  knew. 

Dorsy  said  she  didn't  believe  she  was  thinking  anything 
at  all.     Dorsy  didn't  know. 


Somebody  knew.  Somebody  had  been  talking.  She 
had  found  Catty  in  the  room  making  up  the  bed  for  her 
in  the  corner.  Catty  was  crying  as  she  tucked  in  the 
blankets.  "  There's  some  people,"  she  said,  "  as  had  ought 
to  be  poisoned."     But  she  wouldn't  say  why  she  was  crying. 

You  could  tell  by  Mr.  Belk's  face,  his  mouth  drawn  in 
between  claws  of  nose  and  chin;  by  Mrs.  Belk's  face  and 
her  busy  eyes,  staring.  By  the  old  men  sitting  on  the 
bench  at  the  corner,  their  eyes  coming  together  as  you 
passed. 

And  Mr.  Spencer  Rollitt,  stretching  himself  straight  and 
looking  away  over  your  head  and  drawing  in  his  breath 
with  a  "  Fivv-vv-vv  "  when  he  asked  how  Mamma  was. 
His  thoughts  were  hidden  behind  his  bare,  wooden  face. 
He  was  a  just  and  cautious  man.  He  wouldn't  accept  any 
statement  outside  the  Bible  without  proof. 

You  had  to  go  down  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Waugh.  She  had 
come  to  see  how  you  would  look.  Her  mouth  talked  about 
Mamma  but  her  face  was  saying  all  the  time,  ^'  I'm  not  going 
to  ask  you  what  you  were  doing  in  London  in  ]\Ir.  Nichol- 
son's flat,  Mary.  I'm  sure  you  wouldn't  do  anything  you'd 
be  sorry  to  think  of  with  your  poor  mother  in  the  state 
she's  in." 

I  don't  care.     I  don't  care  what  they  think. 

There  would  still  be  Catty  and  Dorsy  and  Louisa  Wright 


364  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

and  Miss  Kendal  and  Dr.  Charles  with  their  kind  eyes  that 
loved  you.     And  Richard  living  his  eternal  life  in  your  heart. 
And  Mamma  would  never  know. 


Ill 

Mamma  was  going  backwards  and  forwards  between 
the  open  work-table  and  the  cabinet.  She  was  taking  out 
the  ivory  reels  and  thimbles  and  button  boxes,  wrapping 
them  in  tissue  paper  and  hiding  them  in  the  cabinet.  When 
she  had  locked  the  doors  she  waited  till  you  weren't  looking 
to  lift  up  her  skirt  and  hide  the  key  in  her  petticoat  pocket. 

She  was  happy,  like  a  busy  child  at  play. 

She  was  never  ill,  only  tired  like  a  child  that  plays  too 
long.  Her  face  was  growing  smooth  and  young  and  pretty 
again;  a  pink  flush  under  her  eyes.  She  would  never  look 
disapproving  or  reproachful  any  more.  She  couldn't  listen 
an}^  more  when  you  read  aloud  to  her.  She  had  forgotten 
how  to  play  halma. 

One  day  she  found  the  green  box  in  the  cabinet  drawer. 
She  came  to  you  carrying  it  with  care.  When  she  had  put 
it  down  on  the  table  she  lifted  the  lid  and  looked  at  the 
little  green  and  white  pawns  and  smiled. 

"  Roddy's  soldiers,"  she  said. 

Richard  doesn't  know  what  he's  talking  about  when  he 
asks  me  to  give  up  Mamma.  He  might  as  well  ask  me  to 
give  up  my  child.  It's  no  use  his  saying  she  "  isn't  there." 
Any  minute  she  may  come  back  and  remember  and  know 
me. 

She  must  have  known  me  yesterday  when  she  asked  me 
to  go  and  see  what  Papa  was  doing. 

As  for  ''  waiting,"  he  may  have  to  wait  years  and  years. 
And  I'm  forty-five  now. 

IV 

The  round  black  eye-  of  the  mirror  looked  at  them. 
Their  figures  would  be  there,  hers  and  Richard's,  at  the 
bottom  of  the  black  crystal  bowl,  small  like  the  figures  in 


MIDDLE-AGE  305 

the  wrong  end  of  a  telescope,  very  clear  in  the  deep,  clear 
swirl  of  the  glass. 

They  were  sitting  close  together  on  the  old  rose-chintz- 
covered  couch.  Her  couch.  You  could  see  him  putting  the 
cushions  at  her  back,  tucking  the  wide  Victorian  skirt  in 
close  about  the  feet  in  the  black  velvet  slippers.  And  she 
would  lie  there  with  her  poor  hands  folded  in  the  white 
cashmere  shawl, 

Richard  knew  what  you  were  thinking. 

"  You  can't  expect  me,"  he  was  saying,  "  to  behave  like 
my  uncle.  .  .  .  Besides,  it's  a  little  too  late,  isn't  it?  .  .  . 
We  said,  whatever  we  did  we  wouldn't  go  back  on  it.  If 
it  wasn't  wrong  then,  Mary,  it  isn't  wrong  now." 

"  It  isn't  that,  Richard." 

(No.  Not  that.  Pure  and  remorseless  then.  Pure  and 
remorseless  now.) 

She  wondered  whether  he  had  heard  it.  The  crunching 
on  the  gravel  walk  under  the  windows,  stopping  suddenly 
when  the  feet  stepped  on  to  the  grass.  And  the  hushed 
growl  of  the  men's  voices.  Baxter  and  the  gardener.  They 
had  come  to  see  whether  the  light  would  go  out  again 
behind  the  yellow  blinds  as  it  had  gone  out  last  night. 

If  you  were  a  coward;  if  you  had  wanted  to  get  off  scot- 
free,  it  was  too  late. 

Richard  knows  I'm  not  a  coward.  Funk  wouldn't  keep 
me  from  him.     It  isn't  that. 

"  What  is  it,  then?  " 

"  Can't  you  see,  can't  you  feel  that  it's  no  use  coming 
again,  just  for  this?  It'll  never  be  what  it  was  then.  It'll 
always  be  like  last  night,  and  you'll  think  I  don't  care. 
Something's  holding  me  back  from  you.  Something  that's 
happened  to  me.    I  don't  know  yet  what  it  is." 

"  Nerves.     Nothing  but  nerves." 

"  No.  I  thought  it  was  nerves  last  night.  I  thought 
it  was  this  room.  Those  two  poor  ghosts,  looking  at  us. 
I  even  thought  it  might  be  Mark  and  Roddy  —  all  of  them 
—  tugging  at  me  to  get  me  away  from  you.  .  .  .  But  it  isn't 
that.     It's  something  in  me." 

"  You're  trying  to  tell  me  you  don't  want  me." 

"  I'm  trying  to  tell  you  what  happened.     I  did  want  you, 


366  MARY    OLIVIER:     A    LIFE 

all  last  year.  It  was  so  awful  that  I  had  to  stop  it.  You 
couldn't  go  on  living  like  that.  ...  I  willed  and  willed  not 
to  want  you." 

"  So  did  I.  All  the  willing  in  the  world  couldn't  stop 
me." 

"  It  isn't  that  sort  of  willing.  You  might  go  on  all  your 
life  like  that  and  nothing  would  happen.  You  have  to  find 
it  out  for  yourself;  and  even  that  might  take  you  all  your 
life.  ...  It  isn't  the  thing  people  call  willing  at  all.  It's 
much  queerer.    Awfully  queer." 

"  How  —  queer?  " 

"  Oh  —  the  sort  of  queerness  you  don't  like  talking 
about." 

"  I'm  sorry,  Mary.  You  seem  to  be  talking  about 
something,  but  I  haven't  the  faintest  notion  what  it  is.  But 
you  can  make  yourself  believe  anything  you  like  if  you  keep 
on  long  enough," 

"  No.  Half  the  time  I'm  doing  it  I  don't  believe  it'll 
come  off.  .  .  .  But  it  always  does.  Every  time  it's  the 
same.     Every  time;  exactly  as  if  something  had  happened." 

''  Poor  Mary." 

"  But,  Richard,  it  makes  you  absolutely  happy.  That's 
the  queer  part  of  it.     It's  how  you  know." 

"  Know  what?  " 

He  was  angry. 

"  That  there's  something  there.  That  it's  absolutely 
real." 

''  Real?  " 

"  Why  not?  If  it  makes  you  happy  without  the  thing 
you  care  most  for  in  the  whole  world.  .  .  .  There  must  be 
something  there.  It  must  be  real.  Real  in  a  way  that 
nothing  else  is." 

''  You  aren't  happy  now,"  he  said. 

"  No.  And  you're  with  me.  And  I  care  for  you  more 
than  anything  in  the  whole  world." 

"  I  thought  you  said  that  was  all  over." 

"  No.     It's  only  just  begun." 

"  I  can't  say  I  see  it." 

"  You'll  see  it  all  right  soon.  .  .  .  When  you've  gone." 


MIDDLE-AGE  367 


It  was  no  use  not  marrying  him,  no  use  sending  him 
away,  as  long  as  he  was  tied  to  you  by  his  want. 

You  had  no  business  to  be  happy.  It  wasn't  fair.  There 
was  he,  tied  to  you  tighter  than  if  you  had  married  him. 
And  there  you  were  in  your  inconceivable  freedom.  Sup- 
posing you  could  give  liim  the  same  freedom,  the  same 
happiness?  Supposing  you  could  "  work  "  it  for  him,  make 
It  (whatever  it  was)  reach  out  and  draw  him  into  your 
immunity,  your  peace? 


VI 

Whatever  It  was  It  was  there.  You  could  doubt  away 
yourself  and  Richard,  but  you  couldn't  doubt  away  It. 

It  might  leave  you  for  a  time,  but  it  came  back.  It 
came  back.  Its  going  only  intensified  the  wonder  of  its 
return.  You  might  lose  all  sense  of  it  between  its  moments; 
but  the  thing  was  certain  while  it  lasted.  Doubt  it  away, 
and  still  what  had  been  done  for  you  lasted.  Done  for  you 
once  for  all,  two  years  ago.    And  that  wasn't  the  first  time. 

Even  supposing  you  could  doubt  away  the  other  times.  — 
You  might  have  made  the  other  things  happen  by  yourself. 
But  not  that.  Not  giving  Richard  up  and  still  being  happy. 
That  was  something  you  couldn't  possibly  have  done  your- 
self. Or  you  might  have  done  it  in  time  —  time  might  have 
done  it  for  you  —  but  not  like  that,  all  at  once,  making 
that  incredible,  supernatural  happiness  and  peace  out  of 
nothing  at  all,  in  one  night,  and  going  on  in  it,  without 
Richard.  Richard  himself  didn't  believe  it  was  possible. 
He  simply  thought  it  hadn't  happened. 

Still,  even  then,  you  might  have  said  it  didn't  count  so 
long  as  it  was  nothing  but  your  private  adventure;  but  not 
now,  never  again  now  when  it  had  happened  to  Richard. 

His  letter  didn't  tell  you  whether  he  thought  there  was 
anything  in  it.  He  saw  the  "  quecrness  "  of  it  and  left  it 
there : 

"  Something  happened  that  night  after  you'd  gone.  You 
know  how  I  felt.    I  couldn't  stop  wanting  you.    My  mind 


3G8  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

was  tied  to  you  and  couldn't  get  away.  Well  —  that  night 
something  let  go  —  quite  suddenly.    Something  went. 

"  It's  a  year  ago  and  it  hasn't  come  back. 

"  I  didn't  know  what  on  earth  you  meant  by  '  not 
wanting  and  still  caring';  but  I  think  I  see  now.  I  don't 
'  want '  you  any  more  and  I  '  care  '  more  than  ever.  .  .  . 

"  Don't  '  work  like  blazes.'  Still  I'm  glad  you  like  it. 
I  can  get  you  any  amount  of  the  same  thing  —  more  than 
you'll  care  to  do." 


VII 

He  didn't  know  how  hard  it  was  to  "  work  like  blazes." 
You  had  to  keep  your  eyes  ready  all  the  time  to  see  what 
Mamma  was  doing.  You  had  to  take  her  up  and  down 
stairs,  holding  her  lest  she  should  turn  dizzy  and  fall.  If 
you  left  her  a  minute  she  would  get  out  of  the  room,  out 
of  the  house  and  on  to  the  Green  by  herself  and  be 
frightened. 

Mamma  couldn't  remember  the  garden.  She  looked  at 
her  flowers  with   dislike. 

You  had  brought  her  on  a  visit  to  a  strange,  disagreeable 
place  and  left  her  there.  She  was  angry  with  you  because 
she  couldn't  get  away. 

Then,  suddenly,  for  whole  hours  she  would  be  good:  a 
child  playing  its  delicious  game  of  goodness.  When  Dr. 
Charles  came  in  and  you  took  him  out  of  the  room  to  talk 
about  her  you  would  tell  her  to  sit  still  until  you  came  back. 
And  she  would  smile,  the  sweet,  serious  smile  of  a  child 
that  is  being  trusted,  and  sit  down  on  the  parrot  chair;  and 
when  you  came  back  you  would  find  her  sitting  there,  still 
smiling  to  herself  because  she  was  so  good. 

Why  do  I  love  her  now,  when  she  is  like  this  —  when 
"  this  "  is  what  I  was  afraid  of,  what  I  thought  I  could  not 
bear  —  why  do  I  love  her  more,  if  anything,  now  than  I've 
ever  done  before?  Why  am  I  happier  now  than  I've  ever 
been  before,  except  in  the  times  when  I  was  writing  and 
the  times  when  I  was  with  Richard? 


MIDDLE-AGE  369 


VIII 

Forty-five.  Yesterday  she  was  forty-five,  and  to-day. 
To-morrow  she  would  be  forty-six.  She  had  come  through 
the  dreadful,  dangerous  year  without  thinking  of  it,  and 
nothing  had  happened.  Nothing  at  all.  She  couldn't 
imagine  why  she  had  ever  been  afraid  of  it;  she  could  hardly 
remember  what  being  afraid  of  it  had  felt  like. 

Aunt  Charlotte  —  Uncle  Victor  — 

If  I  were  going  to  be  mad  I  should  have  gone  mad  long 
ago:  when  Roddy  came  back;  when  Mark  died;  when  I 
sent  Richard  away.    I  should  be  mad  now. 

It  was  getting  worse. 

In  the  cramped  room  where  the  big  bed  stuck  out  from 
the  wall  to  within  a  yard  of  the  window.  Mamma  went 
about,  small  and  weak,  in  her  wadded  lavender  Japanese 
dressing-gown,  like  a  child  that  can't  sit  still,  looking  for 
something  it  wants  that  nobody  can  find.  You  couldn't 
think  because  of  the  soft  pad-pad  of  the  dreaming,  sleep- 
walking feet  in  the  lamb's-wool  slippers. 

When  you  weren't  looking  she  would  slip  out  of  the  room 
on  to  the  landing  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and  stand  there, 
vexed  and  bewildered  when  you  caught  her. 


rx 

Mamma  was  not  well  enough  now  to  get  up  and  be 
dressed.  They  had  moved  her  into  Papa's  room.  It  was 
bright  all  morning  with  the  sun.  She  was  happy  there. 
She  remembered  the  yellow  furniture.  She  was  back  in  the 
old  bedroom  at  Five  Elms. 

Mamma  lay  in  the  big  bed,  waiting  for  you  to  brush  her 
hair.  She  was  playing  with  her  white  flannel  dressing  jacket, 
spread  out  before  her  on  the  counterpane,  ready.  She  talked 
to  herself. 

"  Lindley  Vickers  —  Vickers  Lindley." 

But  she  was  not  thinking  of  Lindley  Vickers;  she  was 
thinking  of  Dan,  trying  to  get  back  to  Dan. 

"  Is  Jenny  there?  Tell  her  to  go  and  see  what  Master 
2b 


370  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Roddy's  doing."  She  thought  Catty  was  Jenny.  ..."  Has 
Dan  come  in?  " 

Sometimes  it  would  be  Papa ;  but  not  often ;  she  soon  left 
him  for  Dan  and  Roddy. 

Always  Dan  and  Roddy.    And  never  Mark. 

Never  Mark  and  never  Mary.  Had  she  forgotten  Mark 
or  did  she  remember  him  too  well?  Or  was  she  afraid  to 
remember?  Supposing  there  was  a  black  hole  in  her  mind 
where  Mark's  death  was,  and  another  black  hole  where  Mary 
had  been?  Had  she  always  held  you  together  in  her  mind 
so  that  you  went  down  together?  Did  she  hold  you  together 
now,  in  some  time  and  place  safer  than  memory? 

She  was  still  playing  with  the  dressing-jacket.  She 
smoothed  it,  and  patted  it,  and  folded  it  up  and  laid  it  beside 
her  on  the  bed.  She  took  up  her  pocket-handkerchief  and 
shook  it  out  and  folded  it  and  put  it  on  the  top  of  the 
dressing-jacket. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  you  darling?  " 

"  Going  to  bed." 

She  looked  at  you  with  a  half-happy,  half -frightened 
smile,  because  you  had  found  her  out.  She  was  putting  out 
the  baby  clothes,  ready.    Serious  and  pleased  and  frightened. 

"  Who  will  take  care  of  my  little  children  when  I'm  laid 
aside?  " 

She  knew  what  she  was  lying  in  the  big  bed  for. 


It  was  really  bedtime.  She  was  sitting  up  in  the  arm- 
chair while  Catty  who  was  Jenny  made  her  bed.  The  long 
white  sheet  lay  smooth  and  flat  on  the  high  mattress;  it 
hung  down  on  the  floor. 

Mamma  was  afraid  of  the  white  sheet.  She  wouldn't  go 
back  to  bed. 

"  There's  a  coffin  on  the  bed.  Somebody's  died  of 
cholera,"  she  said. 

Cholera?    That  was  what  she  thought  Mark  had  died  of. 

She  knows  who  I  am  now. 


MIDDLE-AGE  371 


XI 

Richard  had  written  to  say  he  was  married.  On  the 
twenty-fifth  of  February.  That  was  just  ten  days  after 
Mamma  died. 

"  We've  known  each  other  the  best  part  of  our  lives.  So 
you  see  it's  a  very  sober  middle-aged  affair." 

He  had  married  the  woman  who  loved  him  when  he  was 
young.  "  A  very  sober  middle-aged  affair."  Not  what  it 
would  have  been  if  you  and  he —  He  didn't  want  you  to 
think  that  that  would  ever  happen  again.  He  wanted  you 
to  see  that  with  him  and  you  it  had  been  different,  that  you 
had  loved  him  and  lived  with  him  in  that  other  time  he  had 
made  for  you  where  you  were  always  young. 

He  had  only  made  it  for  you.  She,  poor  thing,  would 
have  to  put  up  with  other  people's  time,  time  that  made 
them  middle-aged,  made  them  old. 

You  had  got  to  write  and  tell  him  you  were  glad.  You 
had  got  to  tell  him  Mamma  died  ten  days  ago.  And  he 
would  say  to  himself,  "  If  I'd  waited  another  ten  days  —  " 
There  was  nothing  he  could  say  to  you. 

That  was  why  he  didn't  write  again.  There  was  nothing 
to  say. 

XXXV 


She  would  never  get  used  to  the  house. 

She  couldn't  think  why  she  had  been  such  a  fool  as  to 
take  it.  On  a  seven  years'  lease,  too;  it  would  feel  like 
being  in  prison  for  seven  years. 

That  was  the  worst  of  moving  about  for  a  whole  year  in 
boats  and  trains,  and  staying  at  hotels;  it  gave  you  an  un- 
natural longing  to  settle  down,  in  a  place  of  your  own. 

Your  own  —  Undying  lust  of  possession.  If  you  had  to 
have  things,  why  a  house?  Why  six  rooms  when  two  would 
have  done  as  well  and  left  you  your  freedom?  After  all 
that  ecstasy  of  space,  that  succession  of  heavenly  places 
with  singing  names:   Carcassone  and  Vezelay;  Rome  and 


372  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Florence  and  San  Gimignano;  Marseilles  and  Aries  and 
Avignon;  filling  up  time,  stretching  it  out,  making  a  long 
life  out  of  one  year. 

If  you  could  go  moving  on  and  on  while  time  stood  still. 

Oh  this  damned  house.  It  would  be  you  sitting  still 
while  time  tore  by,  as  it  used  to  tear  by  at  Morfe  before 
Richard  came,  and  in  the  three  years  after  he  had  gone, 
when  Mamma  — 


II 

It  was  rather  attractive,  when  you  turned  the  corner  and 
came  on  it  suddenly,  flat-roofed  and  small,  clean  white  and 
innocent.  The  spring  twilight  gave  it  that  look  of  being 
somewhere  in  Italy,  the  look  that  made  you  fall  in  love  with 
it  at  first  sight. 

As  for  not  getting  used  to  it,  that  was  precisely  the  effect 
she  wanted:  rooms  that  wouldn't  look  like  anything  in  the 
house  at  Morfe,  things  that  she  would  always  come  on  with 
a  faint,  exquisite  surprise:  the  worn  magentaish  rug  on  the 
dark  polished  floor,  the  oak  table,  the  gentian  blue  chair, 
the  thin  magenta  curtains  letting  the  light  through:  the 
things  Richard  had  given  her  because  in  their  beginning 
they  had  been  meant  for  her.  Richard  knew  that  you  were 
safe  from  unhappiness,  that  you  had  never  once  "  gone  back 
on  it,"  if  you  could  be  happy  with  his  things. 

He  had  thought,  too,  that  if  you  had  a  house  you  would 
settle  down  and  work. 

You  would  have  to ;  you  would  have  to  work  like  blazes, 
after  spending  all  the  money  Aunt  Charlotte  left  you  on 
rushing  about,  and  half  the  money  Aunt  Lavvy  left  you 
on  settling  down.  It  was  horrible  this  living  on  other 
people's  deaths. 

in 

Catty  couldn't  bear  it  being  so  different.  You  could  see 
she  thought  you  were  unfaithful  not  to  have  kept  the  piano 
when  Mamma  had  played  on  it. 

Catty's  faithfulness  was  unsurpassable.    She  had  wanted 


MIDDLE-AGE  373 

to  niarry  Blenkiron,  the  stonemason  at  Morfe,  but  first  she 
wouldn't  because  of  Mamma  and  then  she  wouldn't  because 
of  Miss  Mary.  When  you  told  her  to  go  back  and  marry 
him  at  once  she  would  only  laugh  and  say,  "  There's  your 
husband,  and  there's  your  children.  You're  my  child,  Miss 
Mary.  Master  Roddy  was  Jenny's  child  and  you  was 
always  mine." 

You  were  only  ten  years  younger  than  Catty,  but  like 
Richard  she  couldn't  see  that  you  were  old. 

You  would  never  know  whether  Catty  knew  about  Rich- 
ard; or  whether  Dorsy  knew.  Whatever  you  did  they  would 
love  you,  Catty  because  you  were  her  child,  and  Dorsy 
because  you  were  Mark's  sister. 

IV 

The  sun  had  been  shining  for  a  fortnight.  She  could  sit 
cut  all  day  now  in  the  garden. 

It  was  nonsense  to  talk  about  time  standing  still  if  you 
kept  on  moving.  Just  now,  in  the  garden,  when  the  light 
came  through  the  thin  green  silk  leaves  of  the  lime  tree,  for 
a  moment,  while  she  sat  looking  at  the  lime  tree,  time 
stood  still. 

Catty  had  taken  away  the  tea-things  and  was  going  down 
the  four  steps  into  the  house.  It  happened  between  the 
opening  and  shutting  of  the  door. 

She  saw  that  the  beauty  of  the  tree  was  its  real  life,  and 
that  its  real  life  was  in  her  real  self  and  that  her  real  self 
was  God.  The  leaves  and  the  light  had  nothing  to  do  with 
it;  she  had  seen  it  before  when  the  tree  was  a  stem  and  bare 
branches  on  a  grey  sky;  and  that  beauty  too  was  the  real 
life  of  the  tree. 


If  she  could  only  dream  about  Mark.  But  if  she  dreamed 
about  any  of  them  it  was  always  Mamma.  She  had  left 
her  in  the  house  by  herself  and  she  had  got  out  of  her  room 
to  the  stair-head.  Or  they  were  in  London  at  the  crossing 
by  the  Bank  and  Mamma  was  frightened.     She  had  to  get 


374  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

her  through  the  thick  of  the  traffic.  The  horses  pushed  at 
Mamma  and  j^ou  tried  to  hold  back  their  noses,  but  she 
sank  down  and  slid  away  from  you  sideways  under  the 
wheel. 

Or  she  would  come  into  this  room  and  find  her  in  it.  At 
first  she  would  be  glad  to  see  that  Mamma  was  still  there; 
then  she  would  be  unhappy  and  afraid.  She  would  go  on  to 
a  clear  thought:  if  Mamma  was  still  there,  then  she  had  got 
back  somehow  to  Morfe.  The  old  life  was  still  going  on; 
it  had  never  really  stopped.  But  if  that  was  real,  then  this 
was  not  real.  Her  secure,  shining  life  of  last  year  and  now 
wasn't  real ;  nothing  could  make  it  real ;  her  exquisite  sense 
of  it  was  not  real.     She  had  only  thought  it  had  happened. 

Nothing  had  happened  but  what  had  happened  before;  it 
was  happening  now ;  it  would  go  on  and  on  till  it  frightened 
you,  till  you  could  not  bear  it.  When  she  woke  up  she  was 
glad  that  the  dream  had  been  nothing  but  a  dream. 

But  that  meant  that  you  were  glad  Mamma  was  not  there. 
The  dream  showed  you  what  you  were  hiding  from  yourself. 
Supposing  the  dead  knew?  Supposing  Mamma  knew,  and 
Mark  knew  that  you  were  glad  — 

VI 

It  came  to  her  at  queer  times,  in  queer  ways.  After  that 
horrible  evening  at  the  Dining  Club  when  the  secretary 
woman  put  her  as  far  as  possible  from  Richard,  next  to  the 
little  Jew  financier  who  smelt  of  wine. 

She  couldn't  even  hear  what  Richard  was  saying;  the 
little  wine-lapping  Jew  went  on  talking  about  Women's  Suf- 
frage and  his  collection  of  Fragonards  and  his  wife's  portrait 
by  Sargent.  His  tongue  slid  between  one  overhanging  and 
one  dropping  jaw,  in  and  out  like  a  shuttle. 

She  tried  not  to  hate  him,  not  to  shrink  back  from  his 
puffing,  wine-sour  breath,  to  be  kind  to  him  and  listen  and 
smile  and  remember  that  his  real  secret  self  was  God,  and 
was  holy;  not  to  attend  to  Richard's  voice  breaking  the  beat 
of  her  heart. 

She  had  gone  away  before  Richard  could  get  up  and  come 
to  her.     She  wanted  to  be  back  in  her  house  by  herself. 


MIDDLE-AGE  375 

She  had  pushed  open  tlic  French  windows  of  the  study  to 
breathe  the  air  of  tlie  garden  and  see  the  tall  sycamore 
growing  deep  into  the  tliick  blue  night.  Half  the  room, 
reflected  on  the  long  pane,  was  thrown  out  into  the  garden. 
She  saw  it  thinning  away,  going  off  from  the  garden  into 
another  space,  existing  there  with  an  unearthly  reality  of  its 
own.  She  had  sat  down  at  last,  too  tired  to  go  upstairs, 
and  had  found  herself  crying,  incredibly  crying;  all  the 
misery,  all  the  fear,  all  the  boredom  of  Iier  life  gathered 
together  and  discharging  now. 

"  If  I  could  get  out  of  it  all  "  —  Her  crying  stopped  with 
a  start  as  if  somebody  had  come  in  and  put  a  hand  on  her 
shoulder.  Everything  went  still.  She  had  a  sense  of  happi- 
ness and  peace  suddenly  there  with  her  in  the  room.  Not 
so  much  her  own  as  the  happiness  and  peace  of  an  immense, 
invisible,  intangible  being  of  whose  life  she  was  thus  aware. 
She  knew,  somehow  through  It,  that  there  was  no  need  to 
get  away;  she  was  out  of  it  all  now,  this  minute.  There 
was  always  a  point  where  she  could  get  out  of  it  and  into 
this  enduring  happiness  and  peace. 

vn 

They  were  talking  to-night  about  Richard  and  his  wife. 
They  said  he  wasn't  happy ;  he  wasn't  in  love  with  her. 

He  never  had  been;  she  knew  it;  yet  she  took  him,  and 
tied  him  to  her,  an  old  woman,  older  than  Richard,  with 
grey  hair. 

Oh  well  —  she  had  had  to  wait  for  him  longer  than  he 
waited  for  me,  and  she's  in  love  with  him  still.  She's  making 
it  impossible  for  him  to  see  me. 

Then  I  shan't  see  him.  I  don't  want  him  to  see  me  if  it 
hurts  her.     I  don't  want  her  to  be  hurt. 

I  wonder  if  she  knows?  They  know.  I  can  hear  them 
talking  about  me  when  I've  gone. 

..."  Mary  Olivier,  the  woman  who  translated  Eurip- 
ides." 

..."  Mary  Olivier,  the  woman  Nicholson  discovered." 

..."  Mary  Olivier,  the  woman  who  was  Nicholson's 
mistress." 


376  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Richard's  mistress  —  I  know  that's  what  they  say,  but  I 
can't  feel  that  they're  saying  it  about  me.  It  must  be  some- 
body else,  some  woman  I  never  heard  of. 

VIII 

Mr.  Sutcliffe  is  dead.    He  died  two  weeks  ago  at  Agaye. 

I  can  see  now  how  beautiful  they  were;  how  beautiful 
he  was,  going  away  like  that,  letting  her  take  him  away  so 
that  the  sight  of  me  shouldn't  hurt  her. 

I  can  see  that  what  I  thought  so  ugly  was  really  beautiful, 
their  sticking  to  each  other  through  it  all,  his  faithfulness 
and  her  forgiveness,  their  long  life  of  faithfulness  and  for- 
giveness. 

But  my  short  life  with  Richard  was  beautiful  too;  my 
coming  to  him  and  leaving  him  free.  I  shall  never  go  back 
on  that ;  I  shall  never  be  sorry  for  it. 

The  things  I'm  sorry  for  are  not  caring  more  for  Papa, 
being  unkind  to  Mamma,  not  doing  enough  for  her,  not 
knowing  what  she  was  really  like.  I'd  give  anything  to  have 
been  able  to  think  about  her  as  Mark  thought,  to  feel  about 
her  as  he  felt.  If  only  I  had  known  what  she  was  really 
like.    Even  now  I  don't  know.    I  never  shall. 

But  going  to  Richard  —  No.  If  it  was  to  be  done  again 
to-morrow  I'd  do  it. 

And  I  don't  humbug  myself  about  it.  If  I  made  Richard 
happy  I  made  myself  happy  too ;  he  made  me  happy.  Still, 
if  I  had  had  no  happiness  in  it,  if  I'd  hated  it,  I'd  have  done 
it  for  Richard  all  the  same. 


IX 

All  this  religious  resignation.  And  the  paradox  of  prayer: 
people  praying  one  minute,  "  Thy  will  be  done,"  then  pray- 
ing for  things  to  happen  or  not  happen,  just  as  they  please. 

God's  will  be  done  —  as  if  it  wouldn't  be  done  whatever 
they  did  or  didn't  do.  God's  will  was  your  fate.  The  thing 
was  to  know  it  and  not  waste  your  strength  in  the  illusion 
of  resistance. 

If  you  were  part  of  God  your  will  was  God's  will  at  the 


MIDDLE-AGE  377 

moment  when  you  really  willed.  There  was  always  a  point 
when  you  knew  it:  the  flash  point  of  freedom.  You  couldn't 
mistake  your  flash  when  it  came.  You  couldn't  doubt  away 
that  certainty  of  freedom  any  more  than  you  could  doubt 
away  the  certainty  of  necessity  and  determination.  From 
the  outside  they  were  part  of  the  show  of  existence,  the 
illusion  of  separation  from  God.  From  the  inside  they  were 
God's  will,  the  way  things  were  willed.  Free-will  was  the 
reality  underneath  the  illusion  of  necessity.  The  flash  point 
of  freedom  was  your  consciousness  of  God. 

Then  praying  would  be  willing.  There  would  be  no  such 
thing  as  passive  prayer.  There  could  be  no  surrender.  .  .  . 
And  yet  there  was.  Not  the  surrender  of  your  wall,  but  of 
all  the  things  that  entangle  and  confuse  it;  that  stand 
between  it  and  you,  between  God  and  you.  When  you  lay 
still  with  your  eyes  shut  and  made  the  darkness  come  on, 
wave  after  wave,  blotting  out  your  body  and  the  world, 
blotting  out  everything  but  your  self  and  your  will,  that  was 
a  dying  to  live;  a  real  dying,  a  real  life. 

The  Christians  got  hold  of  real  things  and  turned  them 
into  something  unreal,  impossible  to  believe.  The  grace  of 
God  was  a  real  thing.  It  was  that  miracle  of  perfect  happi- 
ness, with  all  its  queerness,  its  divine  certainty  and  uncer- 
tainty. The  Christians  knew  at  least  one  thing  about  it; 
they  could  see  it  had  nothing  to  do  with  deserving.  But  it 
had  nothing  to  do  with  believing,  either,  or  with  being  good 
and  getting  into  heaven.  It  was  heaven.  It  had  to  do  with 
beauty,  absolutely  un-moral  beauty,  more  than  anything 
else. 

She  couldn't  see  the  way  of  it  beyond  that.  It  had  come 
to  her  when  she  was  a  child  in  brilliant,  clear  flashes;  it 
had  come  again  and  again  in  her  adolescence,  with  more 
brilliant  and  clearer  flashes;  then,  after  leaving  her  for 
twenty-three  years,  it  had  come  like  this  —  streaming  in  and 
out  of  her  till  its  ebb  and  flow  were  the  rhythm  of  her  life. 

Why  hadn't  she  known  that  this  would  happen,  instead 
of  being  afraid  that  she  would  "  go  like  "  Aunt  Charlotte 
or  Uncle  Victor?  People  talked  a  lot  about  compensation, 
but  nobody  told  you  that  after  forty-five  life  would  have 
this  exquisite  clearness  and  intensity. 


378  MARY   OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 

Why,  since  it  could  happen  when  you  were  young  — 
reality  breaking  through,  if  only  in  flashes  coming  and  going, 
going  altogether  and  forgotten  —  why  had  you  to  wait  so 
long  before  you  could  remember  it  and  be  aware  of  it  as  one 
continuous,  shining  background?  She  had  never  been  aware 
of  it  before ;  she  had  only  thought  about  and  about  it,  about 
Substance,  the  Thing-in-itself,  Reality,  God.  Thinking  was 
not  being  aware. 

She  made  it  out  more  and  more.  For  twenty-three  years 
something  had  come  between  her  and  reality.  She  could  see 
what  it  was  now.  She  had  gone  through  life  wanting  things, 
wanting  people,  clinging  to  the  thought  of  them,  not  able  to 
keep  off  them  and  let  them  go. 


All  her  life  she  had  gone  wrong  about  happiness.  She  had 
attached  it  to  certain  things  and  certain  people:  Mamma 
and  Mark,  Jenny,  visits  to  Aunt  Bella,  the  coming  of  Aunt 
Charlotte  and  Aunt  Lavvy  and  Uncle  Victor,  the  things 
people  would  say  and  do  which  they  had  not  said  and  not 
done:  when  she  was  older  she  had  attached  it  to  Maurice 
Jourdain  and  to  Mark  still  and  Mamma;  to  going  back  to 
Mamma  after  Dover;  to  the  unknown  houses  in  Morfe;  to 
Maurice  Jourdain's  coming;  then  to  Mark's  coming,  to 
Lindley  Vickers.  And  in  the  end  none  of  these  things  had 
brought  her  the  happiness  she  had  seemed  to  foresee  in  them. 

She  knew  only  one  thing  about  perfect  happiness:  it 
didn't  hide;  it  didn't  wait  for  you  behind  unknown  doors. 
There  were  little  happinesses,  pleasures  that  came  like  that: 
the  pleasure  of  feeling  good  when  you  sat  with  Maggie's 
sister;  the  pleasure  of  doing  things  for  Mamma  or  Dorsy; 
all  the  pleasures  that  had  come  through  the  Sutcliffes.  The 
Sutcliffes  went,  and  yet  she  had  been  happy.  They  had  all 
gone,  and  yet  she  was  happy. 

If  you  looked  back  on  any  perfect  happiness  you  saw  that 
it  had  not  come  from  the  people  or  the  things  you  thought  it 
had  come  from,  but  from  somewhere  inside  yourself.  When 
you  attached  it  to  people  and  things  they  ceased  for  that 
moment  to  be  themselves;  the  space  they  then  seemed  to 


MIDDLE-AGE  379 

inhabit  was  not  their  own  space;  the  time  of  the  wonderful 
event  was  not  their  time.  They  became  part  of  the  kingdom 
of  God  within  you. 

Not  Richard.  He  had  become  part  of  the  kingdom  of 
God  without  ceasing  to  be  himself. 

That  was  because  she  had  loved  him  more  than  herself. 
Loving  him  more  than  herself  she  had  let  him  go. 

Letting  go  had  somehow  done  the  trick. 

XI 

I  used  to  think  there  was  nothing  I  couldn't  give  up  for 
Richard. 

Could  I  give  up  this?  If  I  had  to  choose  between  losing 
Richard  and  losing  this?  (I  suppose  it  would  be  generally 
considered  that  I  had  lost  Richard.)  If  I  had  had  to  choose 
seven  years  ago,  before  I  knew,  I'd  have  chosen  Richard; 
I  couldn't  have  helped  myself.  But  if  I  had  to  choose  now 
—  knowing  what  reality  is  —  between  losing  Richard  in  the 
way  I  have  lost  him  and  losing  reality,  absolutely  and  for 
ever,  losing,  absolutely  and  for  ever,  my  real  self,  knowing 
that  I'd  lost  it?  .  .  . 

If  there's  anything  in  it  at  all,  losing  my  real  self  would 
be  losing  Richard,  losing  Richard's  real  self  absolutely  and 
for  ever.  Knowing  reality  is  knowing  that  you  can't  lose 
it.    That  or  nothing. 

xn 

Supposing  there  isn't  anything  in  it?  Supposing  —  Sup- 
posing — 

Last  night  I  began  thinking  about  it  again.  I  stripped 
my  soul;  I  opened  all  the  windows  and  let  my  ice-cold 
thoughts  in  on  the  poor  thing;  it  stood  shivering  between 
certainty  and  uncertainty. 

I  tried  to  doubt  away  this  ultimate  passion,  and  it  turned 
my  doubt  into  its  own  exquisite  sting,  the  very  thrill  of  the 
adventure. 

Supposing  there's  nothing  in  it,  nothing  at  all? 

That's  the  risk  vou  take. 


380  MARY    OLIVIER:    A   LIFE 


XIII 


There  isn't  any  risk.    This  time  it  was  clear,  clear  as  the 
black  pattern  the  sycamore  makes  on  the  sky. 
If  it  never  came  again  I  should  remember. 


THE  END 


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"  A  splendid  novel;  full  of  remarkable  power.** 

The  Tree  of  Heaven 

By  may  SINCLAIR 

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A  singularly  penetrating  story  of  modern  life,  written  in  the 
author's  very  best  manner.  The  scheme,  the  root  motive  of 
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tion —  the  generation  that  was  condemned  as  neurotic  and 
decadent  by  common  consent  a  little  more  than  three  years  ago, 
but  is  now  enduring  the  ordeal  of  the  war  with  great  singleness 
of  heart.  This  theme,  in  Miss  Sinclair's  hands,  assumes  big 
proportions  and  gives  her  at  the  same  time  ample  opportunity 
for  character  analysis,  in  which  art  she  is  equalled  by  few  con- 
temporary writers. 

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"One  of  the  most  impressive  works  of  fiction  of  our  day."  — 
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"  A  wonderful  story  .  .  .  continuously  interesting  narrative," 
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*'  Miss  Sinclair  records  perceptions  of  extraordinary  keen- 
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least  commonplace;  .  .  .  seeking  no  false  'unity  of  tone,' 
she  discusses  unmistakably  true  reactions,  not  only  making 
us  feel  '  the  pity  of  it '  but  compelling  us  to  realize  that  if  we 
were  actual  witnesses  of  Belgium's  distress  we  should  some- 
times be  unable  to  realize  the  expected  emotion  at  all." 

— North  American  Review. 

"Miss  Sinclair  is  never  a  blunt  or  a  hasty  observer  and 
her  picture  of  war  as  she  saw  it  will  furnish  valuable  and 
reliable  data  for  the  historian  of  this  terrible  epoch." 

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temperament  ...  a  story  of  events  as  they  are  measured 
by  and  sway  the  minds  of  men  and  women.  ...  A  fascin- 
atingly interesting  story.  Better  in  scheme  and  motive  and 
characterisation  even  than  *  The  Combined  Maze.'  Touches 
the  heights  of  Miss  Sinclair's  skill,  and  indicates  in  her  still 
higher  powers." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  At  once  refreshing  and  unusual.  Will  appreciably 
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are  endowed  with  such  gifts  of  humanization  and  character 
portrayal." —  Chicago  Herald. 

**  A  most  readable  new  novel.  .  .  .  An  exceptionally  able 
and  interesting  study.  Miss  Sinclair  handles  a  host  of  char- 
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another  notable  achievement  of  its  distinguished  author." 
—  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Most  interesting  and  readable  .  .  .  recalls  Miss  Sin- 
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work.  "The  Three  Sisters"  reveals  her  at  her  best.  It  is  a  story  of  tem- 
perament, made  evident  not  through  tiresome  analyses  but  by  means  of  a 
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"Once  again  Miss  Sinclair  has  shown  us  that  among  the  women  writers 
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"These  are  stories  to  be  read  leisurely  with  a  feeling  for  the  stylish  and 
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They  need  no  recommendation  to  those  who  know  the  author's  work,  and 
one  of  the  things  on  which  we  may  congratulate  ourselves  is  the  fact  that 
so  many  Americans  are  her  reading  friends."  —  Kansas  City  Gazette-Globe. 

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"Always  a  clever  writer,  Miss  Sinclair  at  her  best  is  an  exceptionally 
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